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FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE 


BY 

CHARLOTTE  M.  BRAEME 

Author  of  "Dora  Thorne,"  "  The  Duke's  Secret,"  "  Thorns  and 
Orange  Blossoms,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


FOE  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  DKAWING-BOOM  in  a  somber  house  in  a  gloomy 
London  street — unmistakably  the  drawing-room  of 
a  lodging-house.  A  girl  sitting  before  a  piano — an 
Erard,  hired,  by  the  month — looking  at  the  music 
on  the  desk  before  her  and  yawning  undisguisedly, 
it  being  no  breach  of  politeness  to  yawn  when  there 
is  nobody  but  one's  self  in  the  room.  The  drawing- 
room  is  the  drawing-room  of  the  house  Ko.  33 
Carieton  Street,  and  the  girl  is  myself. 

My  name  is  AUie  Somers  Scott,  and  I  have  come 
up  to  London  for  the  purpose  of  having  singing- 
lessons.  I  had  a  lesson  this  morning,  and  I  have 
gone  over  it  again  and  again  till  I  am  tired  to  death 
of  words  and  music  both.  But  I  have  set  it  up  be- 
fore me  now  with  the  laudable  intention  of  going 
over  it  once  more  before  it  grows'  too  dark  to  see. 
To  that  end  I  play  the  prelude  through  conscien- 
tieusly,  and  then  I  left  up  my  voice  and  sing — 

*'  He  thinks  I  do  not  love  him  ! 

He  believed  each  word  I  said.- 
And  he  sailed  away  in  sorrow 

Ere  the  sun  had  left  its  bed. 
I'd  have  told  the  truth  this  morning. 

But  the  ship  was  out  of  sight. 
Oh,  I  wish  these  waves  would  bring  him 

Where  we  parted  yesternight  \ 
Ob,  I  wish " 


2134397 


4  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

A  knock  at  the  street-door,  and  a  knock  wherein 
the  knocker  gives  no  uncertain  sound.  I  hear  it 
through  the  melancholy  wail  of  my  own  high-pitched 
voice,  through  the  pianoforte  accompaniment.  1 
leave  the  instrument  and  rush  to  the  window. 
Olive  Deane  promised  to  make  her  mother  set  her 
down  here,  instead  of  going  to  the  Rollcstons* 
*'  At  home  "  in  Berkeley  Street.  I  hope  it  may  be 
Olive,  though  I  had  given  h?r  up  half  an  hour  ago. 
1  have  spent  such  a  stupid  afternoon  cooped  up  in 
this  dingy  room  that  more  than  once  I  nave  been 
tempted  to  break  my  promise  to  Uncle  Tod  and 
Bally  forth  into  the  street.  Why  Uncle  Tod  thinks 
it  quite  permissible  to  go  out  in  the  morning  for  my 
music-lesson,  yet  out  of  the  question  that  I  should 
put  my  head  out  of  doors  alone  in  the  afternoon, 
passes  my  comprehension.  I  suppose  he  knows,  or 
thinks  he  knows,  more  about  London  than  I  do. 
Poor  dear  Uncle  Tod  ! 

That  is  not  the  Deanes*  carriage,  that  hansom 
drawn  up  before  the  door.  Xor  is  this  Olive  Deane 
running  up  the  steps,  I  draw  back  from  the  window 
infinitely  disappointed.  It  is  horribly  unkind  of 
Olive  not  to  come  ;  she  does  not  know  how  lonely  I 
am  in  these  stupid  old  lodgings,  how  long  the  after- 
noons and  the  evenings  are.  She  cannot  compre- 
hend a  feeling  of  loneliness,  with  that  great  houseful 
of  brothers  and  sisters  in  Dexter  Square.  But  she 
might  keep  a  promise  when  she  makes  one.  I  shall 
scold  her  when  I  meet  her  at  the  singing  class  to- 
morrow, and  tell  her  she  does  not  embody  my  idea 
of  a  friend. 

*'  But,  if  it  is  not  Olive,  who  is  it  ?  The  hansom 
has  driven  away,  but  the  door  has  not  yet  been 
opened  ;  and  I  flatten  my  nose  against  the  glass  to 
see  the  doorsteps,  which  are  partly  concealed  by 
the  open  ironwork  of  the  balcony,    A  young  man 


fOK  LIFE  AND  LOVfi.  § 

IB  standing  below  waiting,  patiently  or  impatiently 
— the  top  of  his  round  felt  hat  gives  no  clew  to  hia 
mood — until  such  time  as  Mrs.  Wauchope's  maid-of- 
all-work  shall  see  fit  to  ascend  from  the  basement- 
story  to  open  the  street-door. 

He  is  coming  to  stay,  evidently,  for  he  carries  in 
one  hand  a  black  leather  valise,  in  the  other  what 
looks  like  a  large  picture,  in  a  kind  of  rough  wooden 
case.  Of  himself  I  can  see  nothing  but  a  dark  over- 
coat and  the  round  hat  already  mentioned,  except 
the  gloved  hand  which  holds  his  valise,  his  figure, 
as  visible  from  my  standpoint,  being  so  foreshort- 
ened that  it  presents  very  little  beyond  the  felt  hat 
and  the  toes  of  his  boots.  I  wonder  who  he  is ! 
Scarcely  a  tradesman,  though  at  first  I  had  fancied 
he  must  be  a  glazier,  with  his  tools  in  the  black  bag 
and  his  pane  of  glass  in  the  wooden  case.  And  cer- 
tainly not  Mrs.  Wauchope's  son,  for  he  is  a  small 
boy  of  eleven  and  to  my  certain  knowledge  does  not 
wear  a  round  hat ! 

He  may  be  related  to  the  two  maiden  ladies  whom 
the  maid-of-all-work  calls  "  the  parlors,"  as  I  sup- 
pose she  calls  me  "  the  drawing-room  "  when  relat* 
ing  all  she  knows  of  my  affairs  to  everybody  elsa 
I  can  distinguish  the  initials  "  G.  B."  painted  in 
white  on  the  black  bag.  "  G.  B,"  stands  for  noth- 
ing that  I  can  think  of  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
but  *'  Ginx's  Baby."  The  name  is  not  satisfactory, 
nor  are  my  surmises  likely  to  lead  to  any  appreciable 
result.  I  leave  the  window  convinced  on  this  point, 
just  as  Mary  Anne  opens  the  door  and  admits  the 
stranger,  without  a  question  apparently,  and  cer- 
tainly with  but  little  delay  in  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

I  glance  at  the  open  piano,  but  I  cannot  bring 
myself  to  sit  down  and  finish  that  song.  I  had 
been  longing  to  learn  it  j  the  Deanes  raved  about  it, 


6  toK  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

but  I  have  had  enough  of  it.  It  was  unkind  of 
Olive  not  to  come — we  could  have  had  a  pleasant 
chat  and  drunk  tea  together — Mary  Anne  has  carried 
up  the  tea-things,  the  teapot  stands  under  that 
hideous  dark  blue  knitted  cozy  on  the  little  square 
table  near  the  fire.  I  do  not  care  to  drink  tea  all 
alone. 

I  wander  away  from  the  window  and  round  tho 
room  aimlessly,  my  hands  clasped  behind  me,  my 
long  blue  gown  trailing  over  the  carpet — the  ugly 
shabby  old-fashioned  room  which  is  "  my  doleful 
prison  this  sixth  of  May,"  as  poor  Anne  Boleyn 
wrote  in  the  Tower  three  hundred  and  fifty  years 
ago.  Not  that  this  is  the  sixth  of  May.  This  is  the 
sixth  of  March,  and  dear  old  tlncle  Tod's  birthday. 
He  is  seventy-two  to-day. 

J^ot  that  I  am  in  prison  here  either.  Nobody 
wanted  me  to  come  here — I  came  of  my  own  free 
will.  Indeed  a  great  many  people  wanted  me  not 
to  come.  Aunt  Eosa  among  them,  who  thinks  it  very 
outre  for  a  young  girl  like  me  to  live  in  lodgings  in 
London  all  by  myself,  and  she  objected  very  mnch 
to  my  coming  up  to  town,  even  for  the  laudable 
purpose  of  improving  myself. 

1  know  these  furnished  lodgings  to  be  eminently 
respectable — was  not  Mrs.  Wauchope  housekeeper 
at  Woodhay  Manor  when  I  was  a  child  ? — and  I 
have  promised  Uncle  Tod  to  be  very  steady,  and 
not  to  go  anywhere  without  the  Deanes. 

*'  Wliy,  Allie,  you  look  exactly  like  Mr.  Millais'a 
picture  of  '  Yes  or  No.'  " 

I  turn  my  head.  Olive  Deane  is  standing  in  the 
doorway,  with  her  gold-rimmed  glasses  on  her  saucy 
nose,  laughing  at  me. 

"  You  wretch  ! "  is  my  salutation.  "  "Where  hava 
you  been  all  the  afternoon  ?  " 

"At  the  KoUestons' — mama  would  not  let  mt 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  7 

off.  But  I  got  her  to  put  me  down  on  her  way 
home,  and  she  has  promised  to  send  Fred  for  me  at 
half-past  five." 

An  hour  and  a  half  !  It  is  an  eternity  of  enjoy- 
ment to  look  forward  to.  I  put  Olive  into  my  own 
hammock-chair,  and  take  off  her  fur  tippet. 

"  I  intended  to  give  you  a  great  scolding,"  I  con- 
fess, laughingly.  "  But,  now  that  I  have  got  you, 
I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say  anything." 

**  But  it  wasn't  my  fault,  AUie  ;  mama  would 
have  me  go  ;  and,  oh,  I've  got  an  invitation  for 
you — you're  to  come  with  us  to  the  Kollestons' 
dance  on  Friday.     Won't  that  he  fun  ?  " 

"  But  I  have  no  evening-dresses  here,  Olive  ! " 

*'  Then  you  must  send  down  for  one,  unless  you 
choose  to  buy  a  new  one." 

"  Oh,  1  can  send  down  for  the  dress  I  wore  at  the 
Hatchells  '  !  We  don't  go  out  much  at  the  vicarage, 
so  don't  be  shocked  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
only  one  ball-dress  in  the  world." 

*'  That's  why  I  want  you  to  come  on  Friday. 
You  haven't  been  at  a  dance  since  you  came  up  to 
town." 

'^  I  don't  know  what  Aunt  Eosa  will  say.  I  came 
np  to  town  for  singing-lessons." 

"  She  can't  say  a  word  when  mama  is  chaperon- 
ing you.  It  is  not  to  be  a  grand  affair,  you  know — 
only  a  nice  little  carpet-dance.  We'll  call  for  you 
in  the  carriage  at  nine." 

"  But  Aunt  Eosa  will  object  to  it,"  I  say,  shak- 
ing my  head. 

"  As  if  you  really  minded  your  Aunt  Eosa  !  You 
know  it's  a  shame  you  haven't  regularly  '  come  out,** 
Allie — mama  says  so,  and  everybody." 

"Uncle  Tod  doesn't  care  for  London  society." 

**  But  you  must  take  a  season  or  two  when  yon 
come  of  age." 


8  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"If  you  mean  a  season  or  two  of  balls  anel 
garden-parties,  I  certainly  shall  do  no  such  thing.*' 

"  But  why,  Allie  ?  You  don^t  mind  their  old- 
fashioned  notions  at  the  vicarage  ?  " 

**  My  dear  Olive,  I  don't  care  a  pin  about  balls 
and  garden-parties." 

**  That's  because  you  know  nothing  about  them." 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  I've  been  to  balls  and  garden-parties 
at  the  Towers  and  at  Dunsandle.  They  were  enough 
for  me." 

*'  But  you  ought  to  be  introduced  into  society, 
Allie." 

*'  Yes,  if  I  were  a  beauty  perhaps,  and  likely  to 
make  a  sensation.  But  I'm  not  a  beauty — quite  the 
contrary  ;  and,  besides,  it  would  be  a  joke  to  *  come 
out  *  at  one-and-twenty." 

"  EUinor  is  to  come  out  next  season,  and  then 
mama  will  have  three  of  us  on  her  hands,"  Olive 
Bays  meditatively. 

"  But  Poppy  is  engaged." 

**  Oh  yes,  roppy  is  engaged  I  And  I'm  going  to 
retire  into  private  life  and  take  up  aestheticism  or 
women's  rights  I "  Olive  laughs,  taking  her  cup  of 
tea  out  of  my  hands.  "  I  can't  compliment  you  on 
the  beauty  of  your  tea-service,  Allie.  You  won't 
find  it  very  hard  to  '  live  up  to'  that  teapot !  " 

*'  Or  the  cozy  ! "  I  say,  holding  it  up  for  her  in- 
spection.    "  Isn't  it  '  utter,'  Olive  ?  " 

"  Utterly  hideous  ! "  Olive  answers,  looking  at 
it  through  her  glasses.  "  Why  don't  you  throw  it 
behind  the  grate  and  work  a  new  one  for  yourself  in 
crewels  on  peacock  velveteen,  like  what  I  am  mak- 
ing for  Ellinor  ?  "  . 

"  I  don't  do  crewel-work  ;  and,  besides,  I  don't 
•want  to  insult  Mrs.  Wauchope.  She  made  that 
cpzy  herself." 

'<  Sq  I  should  have  supposed.    You  mu3t  find  it 


li^OR  LlFte  AND  LoV£.  ^ 

lonely  here  in  the  evening,  Allle  " — looking  round 
the  room. 

"  Lonely  !  "  I  echo.  "  You  may  say  so,  my 
dear  !     I  never  felt  so  lonely  before  in  my  life." 

"  Then  why  do  you  stay  here,  you  ridiculous 
girl  ?  " 

"  Oh,  because  I  wouldn't  give  Aunt  Eosa  the 
satisfaction  of  going  home  before  the  end  of  the 
month  !  She  would  only  tell  me  for  the  hundredth 
time  that  it  was  a  pity  I  didn't  know  my  own 
mind." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  come  to  us  ?  " 

*'  And  practise  scales  half  the  day  for  your  delecta- 
tion and  that  of  your  visitors  !  No,  thank  you,  my 
dear.  I  came  up  to  get  singing-lessons,  not  to 
amuse  myself  ;  and,  having  put  my  hand  to  the 
plow,  I  won't  turn  bacic — yet  awhile.  And  it's  not 
so  bad  here  after  all,  only  a  little  lonely — and  the 
music-lessons  are  great  fun." 

"  How  do  you  like  the  new  song  ?  " 

*'  I  have  murdered  it  till  it  threatens  to  haunt  me 
for  the  rest  of  my  life,"  I  laugh,  glancing  at  the 
piano.  Then,  struck  by  a  sudden  recollection — 
*'  Oh,  Olive,  I've  a  piece  of  news  for  you  !  We've 
got  a  gentleman-lodger  at  Number  Thirty-three." 

"  A  gentleman  lodger  ?  " 

**  Yes.  He  arrived  about  twenty  minutes  ago, 
with  a  black  valise  and  a  huge  wooden  case." 

"Who  is  he  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Mrs.  Wauchope  never  told  us  a 
word  about  him.  She  said  there  was  nobody  in  the 
house  but  those  two  old  maiden  ladies  down-stairs." 

''Well,  he  wasn't  in  the  house  then,  I  suppose  !" 
Olive  says  laughing.  "What  is  he  like,  Allie  ? 
Young  or  old,  dark  or  fair  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that  either.  Young,  I  think, 
and  dark  :  but  I'm  not  sure." 


lO  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  -> 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  Mary  Anne  ?  " 

"  She  has  not  been  up  here  since  he  came  into  the 
Jiouse." 

'*  Then  ring  for  her  now,  and  we^ll  cross-question 
her,"  Olive  suggests,  wiCh  animation. 

Olive  is  up  to  more  mischief  than  I  am,  notvrith- 
Btanding  her  spectacles.     I  ring  the  bell. 

"  We  need  not  expect  her  for  ten  minutes  or  so," 
{  say  ;  and,  pending  her  arrival,  we  drift  into  talk 
about  our  singing-lessons,  of  the  concert  we  are  to 
cake  part  in  with  the  rest  of  the  pupils  on  the  twenty- 
first.  Poppy's  bridemaids'  dresses,  and  a  hundred 
other  things.  When  at  last  Mary  Anne  does  make 
her  appearance,  we  stare  at  her  with  a  vague  surprise 
in  both  our  faces. 

* '  You  rang,  miss  ?  "  she  says,  with  a  look  of  stolid 
inquiry. 

"Oh,  yes  !"  Olive  answers,  in  quite  a  sprightly 
way.  "  You  wanted  coal  on  the  fire,  Allie,  didn't 
you  ?  " 

Mary  Anne  puts  coal  on  the  fire  ponderously. 

*'  AVho  was  the  gentleman  who  came  in  just  now  ?  '* 
I  ask,  trying  to  speak  with  a  gravity  which  might 
excuse  the  question. 

"The  attics,"  Mary  Anne  answers,  putting  some 
finishing  touches  to  the  coal  with  her  fingers. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?"  Olive  inquires,  without  a 
change  of  countenance. 

"I  forget  his  name.     We  calls  him  the  Count." 

"  Is  he  a  co^unt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no — no  more  a  count  than  you  are  !  But  he's 
BO  dark  and  foreign-looking,  and  so  short-like  of 
money,  we  calls  him  the  Count.  Not  that  he's  mean 
or  that — he's  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  wouldn't  owe 
anybody  a  farthing." 

'*  Then  how  do  you  kr.ow  he  is  poor  ?  "  Olive  in- 
quires with  interest. 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  II 

"  In  course  he  wouldn't  live  up  four  pairs  of  stairs 
if  he  had  much  money  to  spare,  for  all  he  wants  to 
be  near  the  skylight !  " 

'*  What  does  he  want  with  the  skylight  ?  " 

"  He's  an  artist,"  Mary  Anne  answers,  with  such 
an  inimitable  air  of  pity,  not  to  say  contempt,  that 
Olive  and  I  are  absolutely  afraid  to  look  each  other 
in  the  face. 

"  Is  he  a  photographer  ?  "  Olive  asks  innocently, 

''  Oh,  no — a  painter  !  And  a  poor  thing  he  makes 
of  it,  though  the  mistress  do  say  that,  if  he  worked 
at  it,  he'd  make  a  name  for  himself.  He  do  work 
hard  enough  sometimes,  but  it's  only  by  fits  and 
starts.  And  he  has  a  lot  of  idle  young  friends  thjit 
come  bothering  him — I  don't  doubt  but  he'd  do  well 
enough  if  they  let  him  alone." 

"  Where  has  he  been  for  the  last  fortnight  ?  "  I 
inquire,  thinking  of  Aunt  Rosa. 

"  On  a  sketching  tour,'^  Mary  Anne  answers  glibly, 
"  up  in  Scotland  or  somewhere.  Can  I  take  the  tea- 
things  now,  ma'am  ?  " 

Permitted  to  take  the  tea-things,  Mary  Anne  re- 
turns with  them  to  the  lower  rc'gions,  whence  we  had 
evolved  her.  The  moment  the  door  closes  behind 
her  Olive  and  I  begin  to  laugh. 

"  What  will  Aunt  Eosa  say  ?  "  Olive  exclaims  de- 
lightedly. 

"  Indeed  I  don't  know,"  I  answer  more  seriously. 
"  I  only  hope  she  won't  know  anything  about  it 
for  the  next  fortnight.     I  sha'n't  tell  her." 

'*  You'll  never  see  him,"  Olive  says,  "  unless  you 
happen  to  met  him  on  the  stairs,  and  that's  not  very 
Wkely.  And,  as  for  his  Mends,  I  dare  say  Mrs. 
Wauchope  will  give  him  a  hint  not  to  bring  them 
about  the  house  while  you  are  here." 

*'  I  don't  mind  his  friends,  or  him  either.  Only  I 
know  Aunt  Bosa  will  think  my  being  here  more  Qv.tr e 


12  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

than  ever.  I  say,  OliTe,  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  hia 
Btudio  ?  " 

''  I  should,  very  much.  I  wonderMf  he  takes  por- 
traits, Allie  ?  Wouldn't  it  bo  fun  if  I  got  him  to 
paint  my  picture  ?  You  could  come  with  me  to 
play  propriety,  you  know  ;  or  would  it  be  necessary 
to  have  up  Mrs.  Wauchopc  ?  I  wish  we  knew  his 
name." 

"  I  shall  soon  find  it  out.  Ginx's  Baby,  I  call 
him — the  initials  on  his  valise  were  '  G.  B. '  " 

"  '  G.  B.'  "  Olive  repeats  musingly.  *'  Fred  knows 
a  great  many  young  artists.  I'll  ask  him  if  he 
knows  any  '  G.  B.'" 

"  I  am  afraid  the  '  four  pair  back '  is  an  artist  as 
yet  unknown  to  fame,"  Ilaugh,  poking  the  fire  into 
a  bright  cheery  blaze.  "  It  has  grown  dark  already 
in  Carleton  Street  ;  but  I  do  not  care  to  light  the 
gas  yet  ;  it  makes  the  evening  seem  so  intermina- 
bly long  to  light  the  gas  at  half-past  five." 

"'  I'm  afraid  so.  Allie,  what  color  is  your  evening- 
dress  ?  " 

*'  Blue,  my  dear — the  most  delicate  shade  of  bird's- 
eg^  blue." 

"  Gauze  or  grenadine  ?" 

*'  Neither,  silk  and  crepe.  Oh,  it  is  a  very  decent 
dress  !  I  was  extravagant  enough  to  get  it  from 
Madame  Garoupe." 

"  Then  it  is  sure  to  be  all  right,"  Olive  says,  with 
a  sigh  of  as  complete  satisfaction  as  if  the  crepe  and 
silk  "confection"  were  absolutely  before  her  eyes. 
**I  wish  I  could  order  my  dresses  from  Madame 
Garoupe." 

"  I  can  afford  it  ;  I  get  so  few  of  them." 

"  Afford  it  ! "  Olive  laughs,  shrugging  her  should 
ders. 

'*  Oh,  well,  you  know  Uncle  Tod  doesn't  allow  me 
me  much  for  dros?  !  " 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  1 3 

*'  Then  why  don't  you  make  him  give  yon  more  ?" 

**  I  don't  want  it.  He  lets  me  have  my  horse  and 
my  dogs  ;  and  nobody  dresses  much  at  Yattenden.'* 

So  "  Ginx's  Baby  "  drops  out  of  the  conversation. 
And  so  completely  have  we  forgotten  his  existence 
that,  when  Fred  Deane  comes  in,  we  never  think  of 
asking  him  if  he  knows  of  any  artist  whose  initials 
are  "  G.  B."  Fred  wants  to  engage  me  for  the  first 
waltz  on  Friday  evening,  and,  as  he  dances  very 
badly,  I  want  to  reserve  myself  for  his  brother  Gus, 
who  is  sure  to  ask  me,  and  who  dances  very  well. 

*'  What's  to  be  the  color  of  your  dress.Miss  Scott  ?  ** 
Fred  inquires,  thinking  no  doubt  of  Covent  Garden. 

"  Blue — cerulean  blue." 

*'  'Taking  color  from  the  skies,  can  heaven's  truth 
be  wanting  ?  '  "  he  quotes  sentimentally,  looking  in- 
to eyes  which  were  certainly  not  ''made  for  earnest 
granting,"  blue  as  they  may  be. 

"  Come  home,  Fred  ;  we  shall  be  late  for  dinner. 
Send  him  away,  Allie  ;  you'll  have  lots  of  time  to 
flirt  on  Friday  evening.  Good-by,  my  dear,  and. 
mind  you  write  down  to  Yattenden  for  your  dress, 
ril  see  you  at  Madame  Cronhelm's  to-morrow.  Fare- 
well till  we  meet  again  ! " 

An  hour  later,  while  I  am  engaged  in  demolish- 
ing my  solitary  chicken,  I  hear  voices  overhead — high 
overhead — Mrs.  Wauchope's  voice  and  another,  and 
then  a  careless  boyish  laugh.  I  glance  at  my  closed 
door,  at  the  great  empty  silent  room,  at  the  chair  by 
fire,  where  I  shall  presently,  try  to  while  away  the 
rest  of  the  evening  with  the  aid  of  a  dish  of  almonds 
and  raisins  and  Octave  Feuillet.  How  lonely  it 
looks  !  How  wearisome  it  will  be  without  a  voice 
to  break  the  silence  !  I  envy  people  who  have  other 
people  to  talk  to — I  envy  Mrs,  Wauchope — I  even 
envy  Mary  Anne.  That  boy's  laugh  is  an  offense  to 
me — I,  who  have  nothing  to  make  me  laugh. 


14  rDH   LIFE   AND   LOTE. 

Yet  he  must  be  as  lonely  as  I  am,  up  there  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  The  evenings  must  seem  just  as 
dreary  and  long  to  him  as  they  do  to  me.  Not  a 
bit  of  it  !  Before  I  have  finished  my  dinner,  I  hear 
him  run  down-stairs,  cross  the  hall,  and  go  out  at 
the  front  door.  On  the  doorstep  he  pauses  a  moment 
to  light  a  match,  and  then  he  walks  away  down  the 
street  quickly,  as  though  he  knew  where  he  was 
going,  and  is  glad  to  go. 

It  is  good  to  be  a  man,  I  think,  a  little  bitterly, 
as  I  lean  back  in  my  hammock-chair  and  stretch 
out  my  hand  lazily  for  an  almond.  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  if  I  could  put  on  my  Newmarket  now 
and  sally  out  into  the  gayly-illuminated  streets— .to 
the  theater  perhaps,  or  to  meet  and  chat  with  a 
friend  !  But,  instead  of  that,  I  must  sit  here  over 
the  fire,  reading  a  book  I  know  by  heart  and  munch- 
ing almonds  and  raisins. 

"  Who  went  out  ? ''  I  ask  Mary  Anne,  as  she  fold* 
up  the  table-cloth. 

**The  Count,"  Mary  Anne  answers  laconically. 

*'  Does  he  go  out  every  evening  ?  " 

**  Mostly — to  the  opera  or  something." 

**  Where  was  he  going  this  evening  ?"  I  ask  care- 
lessly. 

*' To  a  dance,"  Mary  Anne  answers  vaguely. 
**  And  he  do  look  well  when  he's  dressed  for  the 
evening,"  she  adds,  with  some  lighting  up  of  her 
stolid  countenance.  "The  mistress  told  him  so 
just  now  on  the  stairs." 

That  was  what  had  made  him  laugh.  What  a 
careless  young  laugh  it  was  !  It  rings  in  my  ear  a 
still.     To  drive  it  away  I  throw  down  my  book  and 

fo  to  the  piano.  A  piece  of  music  lies  on  the  carpet ; 
take  it  up  and  set  it  open  on  the  desk  before  me. 
It  is  a  song — a  favorite  one  of  mine — "  The  Crosf- 
Koads  " — and  I  play  the  prelude  dreamily,  lingering 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  1 5 

over  each  familiar  chord.  In  the  days  to  come  I 
may  wonder  vaguely  what  led  me  to  sing  this  song 
to-night.  On  to  the  very  last  verse,  I  sing  it 
through — 

•'  Was  I  not  made  for  him  ?    "We  loved  each  other. 
Yet  fate  gave  him  one  road,  and  me  another  I  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

"Come  up-stairs,  and  I'll  show  you  his  new 
picture." 

'*  But  he  may  not  care  to  have  me  see  his  picture, 
Mrs.  Wauchope." 

"  He'll  never  know  anything  about  it.  He  doesn't 
know  you  are  in  the  house." 

"  That  makes  no  difference,"  I  say,  my  sense  of 
integrity  being,  apparently,  no  mate  for  my  land- 
lady's. 

I  am  sitting  at  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  finishing  my  breakfast.  It  is  nine  o'clock, 
and  a  cool  gleam  of  March  sunshine  lights  up  my 
big  dingy  drawing-room,  make  the  ancient  carpet 
and  curtains — which  have  faded  into  an  indescrib- 
able shade  between  drab  and  dust  color — look  still 
more  ancient,  and  gleaming  brightly  on  the  break- 
fast table,  on  the  tin  sardine-box,  on  the  knives  and 
forks,  on  my  silver  solitaires — for  I  have  drawn  the 
blinds  up  to  the  top  of  the  windows  that  I  may 
feel  even  that  vague  unsatisfactory  bit  of  sunshine 
on  my  face.  My  landlady  is  standing  opposite  to 
me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  table — a  fat,  sallow  com- 
plexioned  woman  in  a  frilled  gown  of  black  luster, 
with  purple  ribbons  in  her  black  net  cap  and  a 
purple  knitted  Jichu  tied  behind  with  woolen  tassels. 


t6  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

•'  He  wanted  to  know  this  morning  if  the  drawing- 
rooms  were  taken,"  Mrs.  Wauchope  says,  laughing 
in  her  silent  fashion.  "  I  told  him  they  were — by 
a  lady  of  a  certain  age  from  the  country.  That  will 
keep  him  from  asking  any  more  questions." 

Aunt  Kosa's  face  rises  before  me,  grimly  disap- 
proving. But  I  turn  my  back — metaphorically — 
on  the  menacing  vision. 

"How  long  has  he  been  lodging  here,  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope ?  " 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Wauchope  answers  slowly,  "  he's 
been  with  mo,  off  and  on,  for  more  than  two  years 
now  ;  and  I've  never  found  hitn  anything  but  most 
respectable  and  well-conducted,  though  his  temper 
is  none  of  the  sweetest.  Xot  that  any  of  us  is  sweet 
if  we're  put  out,"  she  adds  extenuatingly ;  "and, 
if  one's  born  with  a  bad  temper,  why  it's  all  the 
more  creditable  if  one  keeps  it  down." 

This  bad-tempered  young  man — whose  name, 
Mrs.  Wauchope  informs  me,  is  Baxter — Gerard 
Baxter — would  be  intensely  gratified  if  he  could 
hear  us.  But  as  he  left  the  house  hours  ago — so 
Mrs.  Wauchope  also  informs  me — that  gratification 
is  denied  to  him. 

"  Come  up,  and  I'll  show  you  his  studio,  Miss 
AUie.  You  never  saw  such  an  old  curiosity-shop. 
And  it  would  be  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth  to 
sweep  it  or  anything — though,  goodness  knows,  it 
wants  it  !  But  he'd  fly  at  me  like  a  young  tiger  for 
raising  a  dust  on  them  weary  old  pictures." 

"  But  if  he  were  to  come  in  and  find  us  poking 
about  his  premises,  Mrs.  Wauchope,"  I  say,  divided 
between  all  the  notions  of  propriety  which  Aunt 
Rosa  has  been  inculcating  on  me  for  nearly  a  score 
of  years  and  a  powerful  desire  to  see  the  pictures, 
**  fancy  what  a  crow  he  would  have  to  pluck  with 
youl'* 


FOR.  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  1 7 

"  He's  gone  to  Kensington,  and  won't  be  in  till 
four  o'clock,"  Mrs.  Wauchope  declares  positively. 
'*  I  wouldn't  have  you  caught  up  there  for  the  world, 
Miss  Allie ;  but,  even  if  there  was  a  chance  of  his 
coming  back,  he  has  left  his  latch-key  on  his  dress- 
ing-table, so  that  he  can't  get  into  the  house  unless 
he  knocks." 

I  am  more  than  doubtful  about  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding ;  but  I  rise  from  the  breakfast-table,  and, 
gathering  up  my  long  dress  in  my  haiid,  follow  Mrs. 
wauchope  out  of  the  room  and  up  the  gloomy 
stairs. 

It  is  a  long  way  up — quite  long  enough  for  my 
better  judgment  to  have  had  time  to  assert  itself 
before  we  reach  the  topmost  landing,  under  the 
very  roof  of  the  house. 

"  I  shall  only  just  peep  in  at  the  door,"  I  say  : 
and  Mrs,  Wauchope,  passing  on  before  me,  nods 
her  head  and  opens  the  low  unpaneled  door. 

"  He  has  had  the  wall  raised,  you  see,"  she  says, 
ushering  me  in — for  I  do  go  in — "and  got  that 
glass  roof  put  on.  Makes  it  much  lighter,  you 
know,  and  quite  cheerful  and  pleasant.  You'd 
never  guess  there  could  be  such  a  fine  roomy  place 
up  here  at  the  top  of  the  house." 

The  great  garret-room  has  certainly  been  metamor- 
phosed into  a  very  well-lighted  studio.  An  awning 
has  been  stretched  under  part  of  the  glass  roof, 
throwing  the  light  more  fully  upon  the  easel  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor.  The  place  is  crowded  for  the 
most  part  with  a  litter  of  quaint  odds  and  ends,  but 
its  untidiness  does  not  trouble  me  as  it  seems  to 
trouble  my  landlady.  Several  pictures,  finished  and 
unfinished,  hang  or  lean  against  the  walls  ;  a  lay 
figure  does  duty  as  a  hat-rack  in  one  corner,  in  an- 
other a  pile  of  rusty  armor  shelters  innumerable 
spiders,  to  judge  from  the  webs  with  Avhich  it  is 

3 


l8  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

festooned.  On  the  easel  in  the  middle  of  the  floor 
stands  an  unfinished  picture,  with  the  colors  still 
wet  \ipon  it — a  somber,  yet  splendidly  realistic  view 
of  mountain-scenery  ;  in  the  foreground 

"  A  lake  of  sadness,  seldom  sunned,  that  stretched 
In  sullen  silence  from  a  marge  of  reeds." 

I  am  not  an  artist  ;  yet  I  stand  before  the  un- 
framed  canvas — I  think  a  picture  never  looks  so 
well  as  when  standing  unframed  upon  the  easel  where 
it  was  painted — lost  in  admiration  of  the  power, 
clearness,  and  artistic  completeness  which  breathe 
through  the  wliole  composition,  and  which  even  I 
am  not  too  ignorant  to  understand  atid  to  appreciate. 

"  That  is  the  picture  he  brought  from  Scotland," 
Mrs.  Wauchope  says,  standing  a  little  behind  me 
with  her  head  on  one  side.  "  I  suppose  there's  a 
great  deal  in  it — there  ought  to  be,  if  he  did  nothing 
but  paint  it  all  the  time  he  was  away.  I  tell  him  I 
am  sure  there  is  some  young  lady  in  Scotland,  he 
goes  there  so  often  ;  but  he  says,  No,  he  doesn*t 
care  for  young  ladies — which  is  ridiculous,  you 
know,"  Mrs. Wauchope  adds  ;  "and  he  with  such  a 
pair  of  eyes  in  his  head  !  Whether  he  likes  them  or 
not,  they  like  him  ;  and  so  I  tell  him.*' 

"  Has  he  very  handsome  eyes  ?  "  I  ask  absently, 
fascinated  by  the  picture  before  me. 

"  Handsome  ! "  Mrs  Wauchope  repeats.  **  I  often 
tell  him  they  were  not  put  into  his  head  for  the 
good  of  his  soul !  But  he  only  laughs  at  me,  and 
asks  me  what  I  want  him  to  do  for  me.  He  mends 
my  spectacles,  and  the  other  day  he  touched  up  poor 
Wauchope's  picture,  and  made  it  look  as  good  as 
new." 

**  Is  there  anything  he  cannot  do  ?  "  I  ask,  laugh- 
ing. 

**  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  able  to  make  his  fortune," 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  10 

Mrs.  "Wauchope  says,  shaking  hfer  head,  with  a  glance 
round  the  studio.  "  Look  at  all  those  pictures  on 
the  walls — only  half  finished,  most  of  them — thrown 
aside  because  he  got  tired  of  them,  and  wanted  to 
begin  something  new.  The  greatest  fault  I  find 
with  him  is  that  he  won't  stick  to  anything.  Be- 
cause he's  not  satisfied  witli  it,  he  tells  me  ;  but 
that  is  all  nonsense.  It  is  because  he  is  new-fangled, 
and  wants  to  be  at  something  else." 

"  An  unlucky  temperament  ! "  I  say  to  myself, 
wondering  if  any  woman  has  lost  her  heart  to  this 
unstable  young  man. 

Mrs.  Wauchope  has  moved  away  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  intent  on  carrying  away  some  empty 
cigar-boxes  which  she  has  found  there,  and  I  turn 
away  from  the  canvas  which  has  taken  such  hold  on 
my  imagination  to  glance  round  the  precincts  where- 
in I  cannot  help  feeling  I  have  no  business.  It  is 
my  first  introduction  to  anything  so  Bohemian  as 
the  studio  of  a  professional  painter ;  and  I  like  it, 
notwithstanding  the  litter  of  palettes  and  brushes, 
the  bottles  of  "  medium,"  the  maul-sticks  and 
palette-knives,  the  colors  and  odds  and  ends  of 
canvas  scattered  about  the  floor.  There  are  pictures 
framed  and  unframed,  ranged  about  the  room. 
There  is  a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  pipes  on  the 
the  table — here  a  quaint  china  tobacco-jar,  there  a 
tall  candlestick  of  Florentine  bronze,  wherein  the 
candle  has  been  allowed  to  burn  down  to  the  socket, 
fencing-foils  on  .the  wall,  books  thrown  down  care- 
lessly here  and  there  and  anywhere,  a  faded  blue 
velvet  smoking-cap  on  one  shelf,  on  another  a  dead 
camellia  in  its  dusty  specimen-glass — a  dead  brown 
camellia,  which  seems  to  have  perished  of  thirsty 
for  the  leaf  beside  it,  which  reaches  down  to  the 
drop  of  water  in  the  bottom  of  the  vase,  is  still  fresh 
and  green. 


So  FOR  LIFfi  ANt)  LOVE. 

**  111  show  you  his  photograph,  if  you'd  like  to  see 
it,"  Mrs.Wauchope  says,  pausing  beside  a  door  lead- 
ing into  an  inner  room — or  garret.  "  He  leaves  his 
album  on  the  dressing-table  mostly,  and  you  might 
know  some  of  his  friends." 

But  to  this  proposal  I  at  once  put  a  decided 
negative.  To  look  at  his  picture — which  all  the 
world  may  soon  see — is  one  thing,  to  pry  into  the 
secrets  of  his  photographic  album  another.  I 
wonder  if  Mrs.  Wauchope  is  equally  obliging  in  ex- 
hibiting my  photographic  album  to  the  Misses 
Pryce  ?  I  shall  lock  it  up  religiously  in  future, 
lest  she  should  be  as  anxious  to  amuse  them  at  my 
expense  as  she  is  to  amuse  me  at  Mr.  Baxter's. 

"I'm  Just  going  in  to  dust  his  looking-glass," 
Mrs.  Wauchope  announces,  and  suits  the  action  to 
the  word  by  disappearing  into  the  inner  room. 

And  I  look  about  me,  utterly  refusing  to  let  the 
idea  of  Aunt  Rosa  enter  my  head.  A  shaft  of  the 
early  March  sunshine  streams  in  through  the  sky- 
lights, lighting  up  a  dusty  canvas  here,  a  gilded 
frame  there,  bringing  into  greater  prominence  some 
bit  of  smiling  landscape  or  some  cobwebbed  *'  prop- 
erty," and  shining  full  upon  the  dead  camellia  in 
the  little  glass  at  my  elbow.  My  eye  rests  on  the 
withered  "button-hole"  meditatively  at  first,  pity- 
ing the  poor  flower,  which  certainly  no  "useless 
water-springs"  have  "mocked  into  living."  But 
all  at  once  a  spirit  of  mischief  enters  into  me — a 
brilliant  idea  which  is  worthy  of  Olive  Deane  her- 
self !  Yet  ought  I  to  do  it  ?  Nobody  will  ever 
know — Mrs.  Wauchope  will  never  suspect,  nor  can 
the  "subtle  spider,  which  from  overhead  looks  like 
a  spy  on  human  guilt  and  error,"  tell  the  secret,  and 
within  these  four  walls  there  are  no  living  creatures 
but  the  spiders  and  myself.  What  living  human 
being  could  turn  informer,  if  I  were  to  take  the 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  21 

withered  camellia  out  of  the-  glass  and  put  the  fresh, 
Bweet,  dewy  bunch  of  violets  I  am  wearing  into  it 
instead  ? 

If  I  do  it  at  all,  I  must  do  it  now,  while  Mrs. 
Wauchope's  back  is  turned.  Again  my  conscience 
whispers  "  Do  not  do  it  I"  and  again  I  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  its  voice.  How  he  will  puzzle  over  the  chang- 
ing !  If  he  asks  Mary  Anne,  she  will  be  able  to  tell 
him  nothing,  she  being  at  this  moment  in  the  mar- 
ket buying  vegetables  for  "the  parlors,"  and  Mrs. 
Wauchope,  even  if  she  suspects  me,  would  not  dare 
to  tell  him  that  she  had  allowed  me  to  pry  into  his 
rooms.  Time  and  the  opportunity  are  too  much 
for  me — in  another  instant  I  have  transferred  the 
violets  from  my  dress  to  the  glass,  and  am  holding 
the  dead  camellia  hidden  in  the  palm  of  my  hand. 

"  I  suppose  you've  seen  all  you  want  to  see.  Miss 
Allie  ?  "  unsuspecting  Mrs.  Wauchope  says,  coming 
back  with  her  black-silk  apron  full  of  the  empty 
cigar-boxes.  "  And  how  any  one  can  live  in  such 
a  den,"  she  adds,  her  cursory  glance  taking  in  the 
artistic  litter  which  certainly  abounds  in  the  place 
with  as  much  disgust  as  if  it  were  her  own  ash  heap, 
*'  passes  my  comprehension  !  And  the  smell  of 
tobacco-smoke  would  suffocate  you,  sometimes — I'm 
often  afraid  Miss  Pryce  will  get  a  whiff  of  it  in  the 
parlors  !  If  you'll  close  the  door.  Miss  Allie,  I'll  be 
obliged  to  you — you  see  my  hands  are  full." 

The  moment  I  have  closed  the  door  my  mind  mis- 
gives me.  But  it  is  too  late.  The  deed  done  can- 
not be  undone  ;  and,  with  the  camellia  in  my  hand, 
I  descend  the  stairs  leisurely,  laughing  to  myself,  as 
I  look  round  the  passages  which  must  be  so  familiar 
to  him,  at  Mrs.  Wauchope's  Machiavelian  method 
of  extinguishing  all  curiosity  in  Mr.  Baxter's  mind 
with  regard  to  her  drawing-room  lodger. 

" I  wonder  where  he  got  this  ?"  I  say  to  myself, 


22  FOR  UFE  AND  LOVE.  ' 

as  I  bring  the  dead  exotic  to  ligh-  in  thj  privacy  of 
my  own  room,  a  minute  later.  "  Perhaps  somebody 
gave  it  to  him.  Perhaps  he  values  it,  dead  as  it  is, 
more  than  tons  of  the  sweetest  and  freshest  violets  ! 
If  that  is  the  case,  how  he  will  bless  the  thief  who 
stole  it !  IIow  he  will  maltreat  my  poor  little  vio- 
lets !  Yet  I  fancy  he  bought  this  flower — there  is 
half  a  yard  of  wire  round  it.  And,  if  he  cared  very 
much  for  it,  he  Avould  scarcely  have  left  it  to  die  for 
lack  of  water  in  a  dusty  vase." 

Nevertheless  I  shut  it  up  in  a  bon-bon  box,  and 
lock  it  into  my  wardrobe,  feeling  vaguely  conscious 
of  a  possibility  of  having  to  produce  it  at  some 
future  time.  I  have  stolen  it,  that  is  certain  ;  and 
should  it  chance  to  be  discovered,  I  might  be  called 
upon  to  restore  tlie  purloined  property,  even  though 
it  be  only  a  dead  camellia.  1  feel  rather  guilty  as 
I  turn  the  key  in  my  wardrobe.  What  would  Mr. 
Baxter  say  if  he  could  have  seen  me  putting  up  his 
discarded  *' button-hole  "  in  a  pasteboard  box  ? 
"Would  he  not  think  witli  reason  that  I  valued  the 
flower  because  he  had  worn  it  for  one  evening  in  his 
coat — I,  who  never  beheld  him  in  my  life  ?  And 
what  would  Aunt  Kosa  say  ?  I  do  not  dare  to  dwell 
on  Aunt  Eosa's  sentiments.  The  mildest  thing  she 
could  say  of  me  would  be  that  I  had  taken  leave  of 
my  senses.  I  shall  never  tell  her,  or  any  one  else, 
what  I  have  done — not  even  Olive  Deane.  Great  a 
madcap  as  Olive  is,  I  doubt  whether  slie  would  pre- 
sent a  bouquet  to  a  man  who  was  a  stranger  to  her. 
Thinking  of  it  in  this  light,  my  cheeks  grow  hot 
suddenly,  and  I  hope  the  violets  will  be  dead  be- 
fore he  sees  them — violets  wither  very  soon  out  of 
water — these  will  be  black  and  dead  to-morrow,  if 
they  spend  the  night  in  that  dry  dusty  glass. 

As  I  put  on  my  fur  cap  to  go  to  my  singing-class, 
I  wonder  vaguely  if  he  is  as  haudgorae   as   Mreu 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  5^ 

Wauchope  describes  him,  and  if  he  cares  as  little 
for  young  ladies  as  he  tells  her  he  does  ;  and  then 
I  button  on  the  jacket  of  thick  gray  tweed  which 
matches  my  dress,  and,  sallying  out  into  the  cold 
March  morning  air,  straightway  forget  that  there 
is  such  a  person  in  existence  as  Mrs.  Wauchope's 
''attics." 

:)(  4:  4:  Nc  4:  4( 

*'  Wasn't  it  stupid  of  me  ?  I  quite  forgot  to  ask 
Fred  if  he  knew  anything  of  '  G.  B.,  '■'  Olive  says, 
as  we  issue  out  of  Madame  Cronhelm's  house  with 
half  a  dozen  other  girls,  all  carrying  portfolios  of 
music.  ' '  They  are  all  talking  so  much  of  the  wed- 
ding that  it  puts  everything  else  out  of  my  head." 

"  His  name  is  Baxter — Gerard  Baxter.  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope told  me  so  this  morning,"  I  answer,  the  recol- 
lection of  my  morning's  misdemeanor  flashing  into 
-my  mind  for  the  first  time  since  I  left  the  house. 
"  He  is  a  landscape-painter,  and  his  people  are 
Scotch  ;  he  has  nobody  belonging  to  him  but  an  old 
grandmother,  Mrs.  Wauchope  thinks,  who  lives  in 
Edinburgh.  And  he's  as  proud  as  Lucifer  and  as 
poor  as  a  church-mouse." 

Olive  laughs,  looking  at  me  through  her  gold- 
rimmed  j9iwce  nez. 

**  You  must  not  fall  in  love  with  him,  Allie — 

"  *  He  was  but  a  landscape  painter 
And  a  village  maiden  she  1 '  " 

"  He  won't  fall  in  love  with  me  from  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope's description,"  I  laugh  in  my  turn  ;  and  then 
I  relate  that  worthy  woman's  stroke  of  diplomacy 
in  describing  me  as  a  spinster  from  the  country 
"between  the  ages,"  as  Madame  Cronhelm  would 
say.  If  I  am  tempted  for  a  moment  to  relate  the 
episode  of  the  violets,  Olive's  next  words  induce  m© 
to  hold  my  peace. 


^4  i'OR  LiFE  AND  LOVfi. 

**  I  didn't  tell  mama  a  word  about  him/*  shd 
Bays,  nodding  her  blonde  head  sagaciously.  "She 
would  be  sure  not  to  like  it ;  and  slie  might — I  don't 
say  she  would,  but  she  might — write  and  tell  your 
Aunt  Rosa.  Mrs.  Wauchope  ought  not  to  have  pre- 
tended there  were  hone  but  ladies  in  the  house. 
Not  that  it's  really  any  matter  you  know — only 
mama  has  charge  of  you  in  a  manner,  though  you 
were  an  obstinate  wretch,  and  would  not  come  to 
stay  with  us  at  the  square." 

*'  I'll  come  for  Poppy's  wedding  next  month." 

**  Well,  I  should  think  you  would  !  " 

'*  And  you  are  to  come  back  with  me  to  the  Ticar- 
age,  Olive." 

"My  dear,  I  wouldn't  miss  being  at  Woodhay 
Manor  on  the  eleventh  of  next  June  for  anything. 

"  And  I  shouldn't  care  half  as  much  for  anything 
if  you  weren't  there.  Do  you  remember  my  birth- 
day  last  year,  and  the  fun  we  had  with  the  school- 
children ?  You  said  it  was  the  first  time  you  had 
ever  helped  in  any  parish-work,  and  you  rather 
liked  it." 

"I  liked  to  see  you  play  the  Lady  Bountiful, 
Allie.  And  besides  that  dear  delightful  curate  of 
your  uncle's  was  fchere — the  man  with  the  romantic 
name." 

"  The  Reverend  Hyacinth  Lockhart,"  I  laugh, 
remembering  how  Olive  flirted  with  him.  "How 
do  you  like  the  new  song  Madame  Cronhelm  has 
given  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  it  at  all,"  Olive  says,  shrugging  her 
shoulders  ;  "  and  I  think  Madame  Cronhelm  is  very 
cross  ;  don't  you  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  strict.  But  you  know  you  are 
horribly  idle,  Olive." 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  go  to  Madame  Cronhelm  to 
leara.    I  only  go  for  the  fun  of  the  thing." 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  2$ 

*'Then  you  can't  expect  her  to  take  any  pains 
with  you." 

"  I  don't  want  her  to  do  so.  She  admires  your 
voice,  Allie." 

"  She  thought  I  was  only  a  beginner." 

"  Well,  you  astonished  her.  She  never  says  much 
—except  to  criticise,  and  she's  bitter  enough  then 
— but  I  could  see  that  your  singing  of  that  delicious 
'  Serenade '  took  her  by  surprise.  And  Herr  von 
Konig  put  on  his  spectacles  to  look  at  you.  AUie, 
it's  the  greatest  pity  in  the  world  that  you  are  a 
woman  of  independent  means  !  You'd  make  a  for- 
tune on  the  stage  !  " 

"  I  wish  Aunt  Rosa  could  hear  you  !  " 

''I  am  sure  Madame  Cronhelm  thinks  you  mean 
to  sing  in  public." 

"  Madame  Cronhelm  is  at  liberty  to  think  her  own 
thoughts." 

"  Do  they  know  you  have  such  a  voice  down  at 
the  vicarage?" 

"•'  I  sing  in  church,"  I  say  demurely. 

*'  I  never  knew  such  a  queer  girl  as  you  are,  Allie. 
If  you  were  anybody  else,  you  would  be " 

"I  wouldn't  be  Allie  Somers  Scott,"  I  laugh, 
shrugging  my  shoulders. 

"  I  suppose  not.  And  I  like  you  just  as  you  are, 
my  dear.  Have  you  seen  the  latest  addition  to 
Poppy's  trousseau  9  A  l^ouis  XVI.  morning-dress 
of  ruby  plush  with  pink  bows — we  must  make  her 
put  it  on  after  luncheop  It  is  most  becoming  to 
Poppy,  though,  you  knov,  I  think  it  is  a  ridiculous 
style  for  the  morning—  *.ncy  crimson  plush  with 
pink  surah  bows." 

Poppy  Deane  is  a  tall  dark  girl,  with  a  marble- 
white  complexion  and  Mack  eyes.  Olive  is  quite 
different — a  little  plumrv  thing  with  a  round  face,  a 
pir'i  and  white  complex*«9n,  very  fair  hair  in  a  wisp 


26  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  ' 

of  curls  over  her  forehead,  and  a  pair  of  very  sauc/, 
if  not  particularly  handsome  eyes.  To  day  she 
wears  a  "  granny  "  bonnet  lined  with  cardinal,  and  a 
coquettish  dress  of  navy-blue  and  cardinal  which 
shows  off  her  prettily  rounded  figure.  Also  she 
wears  spectacles,  not  so  mucli  because  she  finds  them 
necessary  to  aid  her  sight  as  because  she  fancies 
they  improve  the  appearance  of  what  she  considers 
the  worst  features  in  her  face. 

''That  serenade  of  Gounod's  rings  in  my  ears,^ 
she  says,  as  we  reach  the  door  of  the  house  in  Dexter 
Square.  "  You  sing  it  again  for  me,  Allie,  after 
we  have  criticised  Poppy's  plush  gown.'* 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  is  Friday  evening — the  evening  of  the  Eollea» 
tons'  dance. 

I  have  heard  and  seen  nothing  of  **the  Count" 
since  yesterday  ;  nobody  has  mentioned  violets,  no- 
body has  accused  me  of  pilfering.  Whether  he  is 
in  the  house  or  not  I  know  not,  nor  whether  he  has 
been  in  since  I  changed  his  dead  camellia  for  my 
bunch  of  purple  Woodhay  violets  yesterday.  I  have 
been  fully  occupied  between  my  singing-lessons  and 
my  visits  to  Dexter  Square — so  fully  that  such  a 
person  as  Mr.  Wauchope's  handsome  ill-tempered 
lodger  could  certainly  find  no  room  in  my  thoughts. 
If  I  am  thinking  of  any  one  now,  as  I  lean  back  in 
my  comfortable  hammock  chair,  with  my  buckled 
shoes  on  the  fender,  it  is  of  Gussie  Deane.  Poor  Gus 
is  devoted  to  me — has  been  devoted  to  me  since  we 
were  children.  And  Gus  is  not  a  bad-looking  fellow 
by  any  means.  He  is  a  little  fair  man,  and  I  do  not 
like  little  fair  men  as  a  rule.    But  then  he  is  a  cap- 


FOR  LIFE  ANt)   LOVE.  2J 

tain  in  the  "  Blues,"  and  I  believe  he  really  likes 
me.  I  do  not  care  for  him  of  course  ;  but  it  is  fun 
to  have  a  lover.  I  have  had  a  good  many  lovers — so 
at  least  they  tell  me — but  I  have  up  to  this  time 
walked  "in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free."  I  am 
not  a  flirt — my  worst  enemy — if  I  have  any  enemies 
— could  not  accuse  me  of  flirting.  It  is  an  amuse- 
ment which  I  both  dislike  and  despise.  And  I  do 
not  flirt  with  Gus,  though  he  is  and  has  always  been 
my  "chum."  He  does  not  care  to  be  called  ray 
chum  now  so  much  as  he  used.  Olive  says  it  is  be- 
cause he  thinks  "sweetheart"  a  prettier  word.  I 
do  not  care  about  sweethearts.  I  shall  never  be  so 
foolish  as  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one.  I  think  love  is 
all  nonsense.  And  most  of  the  men  who  have  wanted 
to  marry  me — I  do  not  mean  poor  Gus,  of  course  ; 
and,  besides,  he  never  asked  me  to  marry  him — 
were  in  love  with  Woodhay,  and  not  with  Allie 
Scott.  If  I  had  no  money  I  might  believe  in  love — 
a  little  ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  do  not  believe  in  it  at  all. 

"Shall  I  light  the  candles  on  your  dressing-table, 
ma  am  r 

Mary  Anne's  voice  wakes  me  out  of  what  was  per- 
haps as  much  a  dream  as  a  reverie. 

"  What  o'clock  is  it  ?"    I  ask,  yawning. 

"  It  is  half -past  seven,  ma'am.  Is  this  your  dress  ? 
Ill  unpack  it  for  you  and  lay  it  on  the  bed." 

The  back  drawing-room  is  my  bedroom.  I  leave 
my  easy-chair  reluctantly — it  is  a  cold  night  even 
for  March,  sharp  and  frosty — and  follow  Mary  Anne 
into  the  inner  room,  where  a  newly-lighted  fire 
burns  in  the  grate. 

"  Why  didn't  you  light  that  before  ? "  I  ask, 
shivering. 

"The  Count — he  came  in  unexpectedly,  wanting 
his  dinner,"  Mary  Anne  answers,  kneeling  down  to 
put  some  life  into  the  fire  by  means  of  a  rapid  fan- 


2S  FOR  LIFE  ANt)  LOVe. 

ning  with  her  apron,  **  and  I  had  to  attend  to  him. 
He's  just  like  that  always — walking  in  when  he'a 
least  expected.  Gentlemen  is  a  bother — you  never 
know  when  they'll  be  in  and  when  they  won't  ! " 

I  take  out  my  dress  from  its  flat  pasteboard  box 
myself,  unwilling  to  trust  it  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  Mary  Anne's  grimy  fingers.  There  is  a  note  from 
Aunt  Rosa  in  the  box,  and  another  bunch  of  my 
dear  Woodhay  violets.  Aunt  Rosa  tells  me  no 
news — they  are  all  well  at  Yattenden,  and  have  had 
very  cold  weather.  I  lay  down  her  note  and  take 
up  the  violets,  thinking,  as  I  press  the  dewy  fra- 
grant purple  blossoms  to  my  lips,  of  the  dear  old 
trees  at  Woodhay  about  whose  mossy  roots  they 
grew. 

"  Send  Mrs.  Wauchope  up  to  me,"  I  say  to  the 
maid-of-all-work,  when  she  has  done  what  she  can 
for  my  sulky  fire. 

Mrs.  Wauchope  will  make  a  better  attempt  at 
getting  me  into  my  dress  than  she  could,  and  will 
not  perhaps  leave  such  traces  of  the  strain  she  must 
necessarily  put  upon  my  sky-blue  laces.  I  have  ar- 
ranged my  hair  in  its  usual  simple  fashion  before 
my  landlady  comes  up,  gathered  closely  round  my 
head  into  a  loop  of  close  plaits  at  the  back,  and  curl- 
ing in  a  light  natural  fringe  about  my  forehead. 
And  before  the  Deanes'  carriage  comes  for  me  I  am 
ready,  standing  before  the  dingy  old-fashioned  glass 
and  wondering  what  Olive  will  think  of  me  and  of 
my  dress. 

What  I  see  in  the  glass  is  a  tall  girl,  in  a  long 
closely-fitting  cuirasse  body  of  blue  silk,  ending  in 
Bashes  of  crepe  of  the  same  coloi*,  and  with  a  billowy 
blue  skirt  lying  along  the  car»iet  like  the  crisping 
waves  of  a  summer  sea — a  girl  with  a  pretty  white 
neck  and  arms,  with  hair  neither  fair  nor  dark,  but 
of  a  curious  ash-color,  with  eyes  neither  blue  nor 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  29 

gray,  but  a  mixture  of  both,  with  a  nose  neither 
long  nor  short,  a  mouth  neither  large  nor  small — a 
face  that  denies  all  laws  of  beauty,  yet  a  face  which 
Olive  says  she  would  never  be  tired  of  looking  at — 
but  then  Olive  is  my  friend,  and  prejudiced  ;  I  do 
not  set  much  store  by  her  verdict.  What  I  know 
myself  to  be  is  a  girl  with  a  swinging  gait  and  a 
well-poised  head,  whose  outdoor  life  has  developed 
muscle  and  straight  limbs,  and  who,  oddly  enough, 
has  a  pair  of  eyes  which  have  not  looked  out  of  the 
family  face  since  my  great-grandmother  died,  about 
a  hundred  years  ago. 

While  I  consider  myself,  gravely  and  dispassion- 
ately, as  though  my  reflection  in  Mrs,  Wauchope's 
depressing  greenish-tinged  mirror  were  another 
person,  I  hear  the  Count's  voice  up-stairs,  talking  to 
my  landlady.  My  heart  beats  quicker  for  a  mo- 
ment. Can  he  have  discovered  the  theft  of  the 
dead  "  button-hole "  f  But  no ;  he  goes  in  and 
shuts  the  door  ;  Mrs.  Wauchope  comes  down-stairs, 
passes  my  door,  and  I  breathe  freely  again.  I  gather 
up  my  gloves  and  fan,  having  put  my  violets  nest- 
ling near  my  heart,  the  only  spot  of  darker  color  in 
my  skyey  dress,  and,  walking  into  the  drawing- 
room,  impelled  by  I  know  not  what  spirit  of  mis- 
chief or  of  folly,  I  sit  down  at  the  piano  and  begin 
to  sing  "  Thy  voice  is  near."  I  do  not  think  my 
voice  is  audible  in  the  attics,  I  feel  sure  the  words 
are  not  distinguishable  ;  and,  even  if  they  were, 
•who  could  tell  what  silly  freak  led  me  to  sing  them  ? 
****** 

"  Word  after  word  I  seem  to  hear, 
Yet  strange  it  seems  to  me 
That,  though  I  listen  to  thy  voice, 
Thy  face  I  never  see  !  "    ' 

"  Why,  Allie  my  dear,  you're  by  far  the  nicest 
girl  in  the  room  ! 


30  FOR  LIPE  AND   LOVE. 

The  remark  is  Olive's,  of  course.  . 

*'  So  I  have  been  tolling  her/'  says  Giis,  "who  has 
been  my  partner  in  the  waltz  which  has  just  come 
to  an  end. 

*'  Don't  talk  nonsense  !  Who  is  that  gentleman 
who  has  just  come  into  the  room  ?  " 

We  are  standing  near  a  doorway.  Gus  and  Olive 
both  turn  their  heads. 

*'  Which  gentleman  ? "  Olive  asks,  blinking 
through  her  spectacles. 

"  Oh,  he  has  moved  on  now — you  can't  see  him 
with  the  crowd  !  " 

"  Why  did  you  ask  ?  "  Gus  says.  "  Was  there 
anything  remarkable  about  him  ?  " 

*'  He  was  remarkably  handsome,  that  was  all." 

*'  Oh  !  "  says  Gus,  screwing  his  glass  inlo  his  eye. 

"  I  know  everybody  here,"  Olive  remarks,  looking 
round  the  room.  "  If  you  see  him  again  when  I 
am  in  your  neighborhood,  point  him  out  to  me,  and 
I  am  almost  sure  to  know  w"!!©  he  is.  Allie,  you 
look  jolly  ;  I  hope  you,  are  enjoying  yourself  as  much 
as  you  seem  to  be  doing." 

"  Oh,  quite  as  much  !  " 

"lam  having  such  fun  with  him,"  Olive  says, 
glancing  after  her  late  partner,  with  a  world  of  mis- 
chief in  her  saucy  dimpled  face.  "  He  is  so  silly— 
you've  no  idea  what  a  donkey  he  makes  of  him- 
eelf  ! " 

*'  You'd  better  not  make  a  donkey  of  yourself/' 
Gus  remarks  severely. 

'*  Oh,  he  doesn't  know  I'm  laughing  at  him  ! 
Men  are  so  vain,  they  would  think  anything  sooner 
than  that  you  were  making  fun  of  them." 

"  You  know  a  lot  about  them  !  "  says  Gus,  with 
a  glance  of  brotherly  scorn  directed  downward  at 
his  pretty  little  sister. 

*'  I  know  enough  to  know  that.     Here  is  Captain 


tOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  3 1 

Cathcart  coining  for  me.  And  there  is  the  '  Weit 
ron  Dir.'  Oh,  Allie,  don^t  waste  a  note  of  that  deli- 
cious waltz  !  " 

Ten  minutes  later,  I  am  in  Olive's  neighborhood 
again,  this  time  waiting  for  Fred  to  bring  me  an  ice. 

"There  is  the  man  I  mean,  Olive — standing  with 
his  back  to  the  wall — the  tall  dark  one,  talking  to 
Colonel  Rolleston." 

*'  Yes  ;  I  observed  him  just  now.  I  thought  I 
knew  everybody  here ;  but  I  do  not  know  who  he 
is,  nor  does  Captain  Cathcart.  Isn^t  he  splendidly 
handsome,  Allie  ?  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  a 
handsome  face  in  my  life. " 

"He  is  very  handsome,"  I  answer,  glancing  at 
the  grand-looking  boy — for  he  scarcely  seems  more 
than  that — as  he  stands  talking  to  Colonel  Rolleston, 
and  looking  with  splendid  careless  eyes  about  the 
room.  His  face  is  dark,  almost  foreign-looking, 
with  a  straight  nose,  a  slight  dark  mustache,  and  a 
pair  of  the  most  beautiful,  fierce,  tender,  laughing, 
long-lashed  eyes  I  have  ever  seen. 

"  I  shall  get  Katie  Rolleston  to  tell  me  his  name,'* 
Olive  promises,  as  her  partner  whirls  her  away ;  and 
Fred  returning  with  my  ice,  that  and  the  waltz  put 
everything  else  out  of  my  head. 

It  is  nearly  half  an  hour  later  when  somebody  in- 
troduces me  to  a  partner  for  the  coming  waltz  whose 
name  I  do  not  catch  ;  and,  looking  round  carelessly, 
still  talking  to  young  Rolleston,  I  find  the  unknown 
standing  before  ma  with  his  eyes  fixed  inquiringly 
on  my  face. 

I  accept  him,  of  course,  and  walk  away  with  him, 
wishing  I  had  caught  his  name.  He  is  a  rather 
silent  partner,  appearing  to  be  more  anxious  to  study 
me  than  to  make  himself  agreeable ;  but  whatever 
he  does  say  is  clever  and  amusing,  and  so  boyish 
vithal  that  it  is  absolutely  refreshing  after  tha 


p  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfi. 

'*  society  "  talk  to  which  I  have  been  compelled  to 
listen  for  the  last  two  hours.  He  dances  well,  and 
knows  how  to  take  care  of  his  partner.  Once, 
when  somebody  by  accident  puts  his  foot  on  my 
dress,  he  turns  round  with  a  wicked  flash  of  the  eye 
which  brings  Mrs.  Wauchope's  ill-tempered  lodger 
into  my  mind.  And  once  or  twice  1  find  him  look- 
ing at  me  with  an  expression  which  puzzles  me  a 
little.  It  is  not  admiration,  nor  criticism,  nor  de- 
preciation ;  but  it  is  easier  to  say  what  it  is  not  than 
what  it  is — rather  a  mixture  of  amusement  and  curi- 
osity, as  if  trying  to  read  some  riddle  in  my  face. 

When  the  waltz  is  over,  he  resigns  me  to  Gus, 
having  just  put  down  his  name  opposite  to  the  only 
disengaged  dance  on  my  program,  a  mazourke.  I 
can  make  nothing  of  the  hieroglyphic  scrawled  in 
pencil ;  but  I  fancy  the  last  letter  of  the  initials  looks 
like  "B." 

"Is  that  your  handsome  man  ?  "  Gus  asks,  look- 
ing after  him  as  he  makes  his  way  slowly  through 
the  crowd, 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  at  once.  '*  Do  you  know  hia 
name  ?  " 

*'  Don't  you  know  it  ?  " 

*'  No ;  I  could  not  catch  it  when  he  was  introduced 
to  me.'' 

"  Why,    that    is     Baxter— Gerard    Baxter,    the 

Eainter,  a  clever  fellow,  but  no  '  stay '  in  him.    If  he 
ad,  he  would  have  made  a  name  for  himself  long 
ago." 

"  He  looks  a  ^ere  boy." 

**  He  is  one-and-twenty.  He  could  paint  pictures 
if  he  liked  ;  but  he  won't  take  the  trouble.  Jack 
EoUeston  knows  him  well ;  but  I've  only  met  him 
once  or  twice.  He  has  been  away  in  Scotland  for 
^he  last  month  or  two,  sketching.  I  don't  consider 
him  so  very  handsome." 


fOR  LiFife  AND  LOVfe.  ^$ 

I  think  Gus  is  a  little  jealous,  or  I  would  think 
so  if  I  had  time  to  think  of  anything  but  my  own 
astonishment.  So  this  is  Mrs.  Wauchope's  lodger ; 
this  is  the  Count ;  this  is  the  whilom  glazier,  the 
man  whom  I  christened  Ginx's  Baby  !  It  is  strange, 
it  is  astonishing,  it  is  not  to  be  believed  !  The  epi- 
sode of  the  violets  rushes  to  my  recollection — the 
words  I  had  so  imprudently  sung  this  very  evening 
— sung  to  him  !  It  is  well  for  me  that  he  has  no 
idea  who  I  am — would  never  dream  of  identifying 
me  with  Mrs.  Wauchope's  spinster  tenant  "  of  a 
certain  age."  Aunt  Rosa  would  have  good  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  me  if  she  knew  what  pranks  I  had 
been  playing — good  reason  to  say  that  she  was  right 
and  I  was  wrong  about  the  advisability  of  my  coming 
up  alone  to  Carleton  Street !  I  shall  never  be  so 
foolish  again.  I  ought  to  have  had  more  sense — a 
girl  of  very  nearly  one-and-twenty  I  It  has  been  a 
lesson  to  me  not  to  be  carried  away  by  the  wild 
spirits  which  have  been  my  bane  always,  the  love  of 
adventure  which  my  good  aunt  has  so  often  tried  to 
nip  in  the  bud  !  If  I  had  known  that  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope's "four-pair-back,"  was  a  person  like  this,  I 
should  not  have  dared  to  play  what  my  laggard  sense 
of  propriety  now  stigmatizes  as  a  silly  practical  joke, 
all  the  more  silly  because  the  victim  would  never 
know  who  perpetrated  it.  Standing  with  Gus  near 
the  upper  end  of  the  room,  I  wish  devoutly  that  I 
had  not  promised  him  a  second  dance.  What  if  I 
should  be  foolish  enough  to  betray  my  identity  with 
Mrs.  Wauchope's  "  drawing-room  "  ?  What  if  he 
should  ask  me  where  I  am  staying  in  London  ? 
I  shall  be  very  cool  to  him,  very  reserved  and  dis- 
tant, so  that  the  idea  of  asking  such  a  question  shall 
never  enter  into  his  head.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I 
got  myself  into  this  scrape — I  should  like  to  have 
known  my  fellow-lodger  who  is  so  poor  and  so  proud* 

3 


34  Fbk  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

But  I  have  made  any  further  acquaintance  with  him 
impossible,  all  through  that  wretched  little  bunch  of 
violets  ! 

I  avoid  his  look  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  though 
more  than  once  I  am  conscious  that  he  is  quietly 
studying  me.  Gus  seems  rather  annoyed  at  my 
absence  of  mind.  Once  or  twice  he  has  offered  me 
a  penny  for  thoughts  which  I  certainly  would  not 
have  communicated  to  him  for  a  great  many  pounds. 
Retribution  has  not  been  long  in  following  on  the 
heels  of  my  offense  ;  but  I  hope  the  lesson  will  be 
a  salutary  one,  and  congratulate  myself  that  no  worse 
mischief  has  befallen  me. 

The  dance  I  have  begun  to  dread  has  come  at 
last — the  dance  for  which  I  am  engaged  to  Mr. 
Baxter.  He  comes  up  at  the  first  notes  of  the 
mazourke. 

"  This  is  ours,  I  think?" 

I  take  his  arm ;  and,  as  I  take  it,  my  heart  gives 
a  sudden  bound  of  dismay.  In  the  button-hole  of 
his  somber  evening  coat  he  wears — a  bunch  of  half- 
withered  violets  ! 

"  This  has  been  a  pleasant  evening,"  he  says,  when 
we  have  taken  a  couple  of  circuits  of  the  room. 

*' Yes,"  I  answer  vaguely,  my  heart  beating  fast. 

"■  Small  dances  like  this  are  much  more  enjoyable 
than  gigantic  crushes — don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

After  the  first  glance  at  the  violets,  I  do  not  dare 
to  look  at  them.  Any  one  might  wear  violets— 
almost  every  one  wears  violets  in  March.  But  these 
are  my  violets — I  know  it  intuitively,  though  why 
he  should  care  to  wear  them,  having  no  clew  to  the 
giver,  puzzles  me  more  than  the  name  of  the  giver 
can  have  puzzled  him. 

*'  You  do  not  go  out  much  ?" 

**  No,"  I  answer,  wondering  if  the  remark  is  a 


rOR   LIFE  AND  LOVE.  35 

Question  or  an  assertion.     If  it  is  an  assertion,  how 
oes  he  know  ? 

"Shall  we  take  another  turn,  or  aTe  you  tired  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  tired,"  I  say,  thinking  what  an  amus- 
ing companion  he  must  find  me. 

We  take  a  few  n^ore  turns,  and  then  come  to  a 
stand-still.     Mr.  Baxter  seems  to  prefer  to  talk. 

"  You  are  fond  of  violets  ?  " — glancing  at  the 
bouquet  in  my  dress. 

A  rush  of  foolish,  guilty  crimson  dyes  my  cheeks 
which  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  kept  out  of 
them.  But  it  comes  there,  and  it  stays,  while  my 
partner  lowers  his  dark  imperial  head  to  look  into 
my  half-frightened,  half-defiant  eyes. 

"Very  fond,"  I  answer  glibly.  "I  think  every 
one  is  fond  of  violets." 

"  I  am,"  he  says,  smiling  a  little. 

"  You  must  be,  to  wear  so  poor  a  bunch." 

**  You  would  not  call  them  poor,  unless — " 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Ko  matter,"  he  returns,  laughing.  "But  it  is 
not  very  polite  of  you  to  disparage  my  violets." 

"  It  is  not  indeed.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me," 
I  say,  conscious  that,  unless  he  is  on  an  entirely 
wrong  scent,  I  have  stupidly  betrayed  myself. 

"  Certainly.  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  You 
only  spoke  the  truth  when  you  said  my  violets  were 
a  little  faded — they  were  badly  treated,  poor  little 
flowers  ! " 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  I  ask  innocently. 

"  Well,"  he  says  deliberately,  looking  not  at  me 
now,  but  at  the  violets,  "they  were  given  to  me  by 
a  lady  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  And,  if  I  hs<l 
not  fortunately  discovered  them  in  time,  they  would 
have  died  for  want  of  water  in  a  dusty  glass." 

"  Indeed ! "  I  observe  c^uietly,  looking  past  hiu 
at  the  dancers. 


36  FOR   LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

"  It  was  kind  of  her,  was  it  not — to  me — not  to 
the  violets  ?  " 

**So  much  depends  upon  her  motive,"  I  answer 
carelessly,  wondering  if  he  knows. 

"She  could  have  had  but  one  motive." 

"And  that?" 

"  Well,"  he  says,  smiling,  "  I  do  not  know  that  I 
ought  to  tell  you  what  I  think." 

"  You  think  so  badly  of  her ! "  I  exclaim,  the 
troublesome  crimson  rushing  to  my  checks  again. 

"  If  I  thought  badly  of  her,  should  I  wear  her 
violets  ?  " 

"  She  never  meant  you  to  know  who  left  them  for 
you  probably." 

"Probably." 

"  You  say  you  do  not  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  her  name." 

**  But  you  know  it  now  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  I  know  it  now." 

"  And  it  is—" 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"I  know  you  do  not  think  so  badly  of  me  as  to 
suppose  I  would  answer  that  question." 

I  breathe  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  He  does  not  know 
then — he  does  not  connect  me  with  the  suspected 
party,  whoever  she  may  be.  Perhaps  he  thinks  it 
was  the  younger  Miss  Pryce  !  Mary  Anne  told  me 
they  sometimes  got  flowers  up  from  the  country. 

"  She  scarcely  deserves  so  much  consideration  at 
your  hands,"  I  say  shortly. 

*'  Why  not  ?  "  he  asks,  with  a  laughing  look  from 
under  his  long  eyelashes. 

"  It  is  scarcely  a  lady's  place  to  send  violets  to  a 
gentleman ;  even  if  she  were  acquainted  with  him." 

*'  You  women  are  very  hard  upon  each  other." 

"Not  so  hard  as  you  are,  perhaps,"  I  say,  a  little 
bitterly.     "  Now  you  think  tne  woman  who  sent  you 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  37 

those  violets — or  gave  them  to  you— is  scarcely 
worthy  of  your  respect." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  answers  quickly,  "  I  know 
she  did  it  out  of  mere  thoughtless  kindness — perhaps 
mixed  with  a  spice  of  mischief.  And  she  thought  I 
would  never  know  it — I  am  very  sure  she  intended 
that  I  never  should  ! " 

There  are  tears  of  mortification  in  my  eyes  that  I 
should  have  lowered  myself  by  doing  this  foolish 
thing.  How  I  hate  those  miserable  violets,  how  I 
wish  they  had  withered  among  their  native  ferns  and 
mosses  under  the  elms  and  chestnuts  at  Woodhay, 
before  they  tempted  me  to  make  such  a  fool  of  my- 
self ! 

*'  You  seem  to  take  it  to  heart,"  Mr.  Baxter  says, 
looking  down  at  me.  I  suppose  I  look  very  cross 
and  disagreeable.  "  I  am  sorry  I  told  you  anything 
about  it.     Do  you  care  to  try  the  mazourke  again  ? 

**No,  thank  you.  I  do  not  care  to  dance  any 
more." 

"  Miss  Scott,"  he  says,  standing  before  me,  and 
speaking  gravely  enough  now,  "  I  must  ask  you  to 
forgive  me.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  having 
spoken  of  what  I  should  have  kept  secret — of  what 
I  ought  to  have  taken  for  just  as  much  as  it  was 
worth.  The  violets  were  put — ^where  I  found  them 
— in  jest,  and  I  have  worn  them  in  earnest.  I  ha(i 
no  right  to  do  it ;  and,  if  you  will  return  them  to 
the  owner,  I  will  expiate  my  fault  by  giving  them 
up  to  you." 

He  takes  the  bunch  of  withered  violets  from  his 
button-hole  tenderly  in  the  tips  of  his  white-gloved 
fingers,  and  hands  them  to  me. 

"It  costs  me  more  than  you  think  to  give  them 
up,"  he  says,  looking  at  them  wistfully. 

**  I  think  she  would  not  refuse  to  let  you  keep 
them,  whoever  she  is,"  I  answer,  laughing,  with  such 


$8  FOR  LIb£  AND  LOVfi. 

a  sodden  change  of  mood  that  it  even  puzzles  my- 
self. 

"  You  think  that ! "  he  questions  eagerly. 

*'  They  do  not  look  very  valuable,  do  they  ?" 

*'  Because  they  are  a  little  withered.  I  value  them 
— more  than  you  know." 

"  Take  them  then/'  I  say  carelessly,  feeling  that 
Gus  is  watching  me,  and  that  to  keep  Mr.  Baxter's 
violets  would  look  more  remarkable  than  merely  to 
inhale  their  fragrance  and  hand  them  back  again. 
"  Take  them,  and  pay  her  the  further  compliment 
of  forgetting  the  folly  which  put  them  into  your 
possession." 

"And.  will  you  ask  her,"  he  says  eagerly,  ''to 
pardon  my  presumption  in  daring  to  pretend  that  I 
misinterpreted  her  gracious  gift  ?  " 

*'  If  she  can  forgive  herself,  she  may  very  well 
extend  her  forgiveness  to  you,"  I  answer,  gathering 
up  my  billowy  train  in  my  hand  as  I  stand  beside 
him,  looking  very  tall  and  slim  and  dignified  out- 
wardly, but  within  feeling  several  degrees  smaller 
than  I  have  ever  felt  in  my  life  before.  "  For  my 
part,  I  do  not  see  how  she  can  ever  forgive  herself. 

"  She  need  not  blame  herself,"  he  says,  looking 
down  at  me  from  his  superior  height  with  a  smile 
which  displeases  me  by  reason  of  its  undisguised 
amusement. 

"I  do  not  suppose  she  blames  herself  very  much,^' 
I  return  deliberately  with  the  careless  insolence  with 
which  I  think  to  recover  my  own  conceit.  **It 
would  be  dijfferent,  you  know,  if  you  were — " 

''Anything  but  a  poor  landscape-painter,"  he  in- 
terrupts, at  no  loss  to  comprehend  my  insolent  pause. 
*'  She  would  never  have  dared  to  do  it  if  she  had 
thought  him  her  equal.  She  would  never  have  ven- 
tured to  do  it  if  she  had  dreamed  of  his  thrusting 
Uiniself  into  the  same  society  which  she  frequents. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  39 

His  dark  eyes  have  blazed  up  quite  suddenly.  I 
had  not  thought  they  could  change  like  that. 

"  Probably  not  ;  though  I  think  she  was  more  to 
blame  for  that  very  reason,"  1  answer,  with  a  slight, 
almost  imperceptible  movement  of  my  shoulders. 

''  I  think  so.  I  would  rather  take  a  liberty  with 
an  equal  than  with  an  inferior  myself,"  he  says  quite 
quietly,  but  with  an  indescribable  inflection  of  voice 
which  enrages  me. 

'*  It  was  a  liberty,"  I  acquiesce,  with  cheeks 
which  have  deepened  into  crimson  again.  "You 
are  right  when  you  call  it  a  liberty.  It  was  a  most 
unpardonable  liberty." 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  I  merely  said  that  I  should 
not  presume  on  difEerence  of  rank  to  play  a  trick 
upon  another  person — that  was  what  I  said." 

"  I  played  no  trick  upon  you  !  "  I  exclaim  indig- 
nantly. 

"You  !  "  he  repeats,  his  face  changing  suddenly 
back  from  angry  storm  to  amusement.  "I  never 
accused  you  !     We  are  talking  of  another  person." 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  another  person  ! "  I  agree,  moving 
away  with  the  insolently  disdainful  air  which  had 
infuriated  him.  "  Of  a  person  who  ought  to  regret 
bitterly  that  she  so  far  forgot  herself  as  to  put  it 
into  your  power  to  insult  her." 

He  is  holding  the  bunch  of  violets  still  in  his 
hand.  As  I  turn  away,  he  lets  them  fall,  and  sets 
his  heel  upon  them,  grinding  them  into  the  floor.  I 
pity  Mrs.  Rolleston's  Brussels  carpet  more  than  I 
pity  the  violets,  which  have  done  me  too  much  mis- 
chief to  expect  sympathy  from  me  in  their  ignomin- 
ious end. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,  Allie  !  We've  been  search- 
ing for  you  everywhere.     Mama  is  going  home." 

Olive  comes  up  to  me  breathless,  Gus,  at  som« 
distance  behind  her,  looking  black  as  thuR^er. 


40  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**  I  am  ready,"  I  answer,  without  a  glance  at  my 
late  companion. 

"  Have  you  quarreled  with  your  handsome 
cavalier,  Allie  ?  " 

''Quarreled  with  him,  Olive  ?" 

**  You  looked  as  if  you  were  quarreling  like  any- 
thing just  now." 

"I  wonder  Mrs.  Rolleston  cares  to  ask  such 
people  to  her  house,  Olive.  I  don't  think  that  man 
has  the  smallest  pretensions  to  be  called  a  gentle- 
man." 

Olive  laughs,  looking  at  me. 

**  Ah,  I  see  you  have  quarreled  !  "  she  says,  shak- 
ing her  head.  *' Allie,  I'm  afraid  you  ave  going  to 
fall  in  love  with  Mr.  Gerard  Baxter.  '* 


CHAPTER  IV. 

For  two  days,  even  to  myself,  I  ignore  the  exist- 
ence of  Mr.  Gerard  Baxter.  I  never  mention  his 
name  to  either  Mrs.  Wauchope  or  Mary  Anne,  nor 
do  they  mention  his  name  to  me.  I  fancy  he  is  in 
the  house — I  fancy  I  hear  his  knock  at  the  door 
sometimes ;  but  I  never  look  out — I  never  listen  for 
the  sound  of  his  voice.  I  practise  a  great  deal, 
having  promised  Madame  Cronhelm  to  sing  at  her 
concert,  and  Olive  has  lent  me  "  Probation,"  so 
that  I  do  not  find  time  hang  heavily  on  my  hands. 
I  spend  the  mornings  at  Madame  Cronhelm's,  and 
very  often  lunch  with  the  Deanes,  only  coming  back 
to  Carleton  Street  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. It  is  cold,  disagreeable  weather,  with  an 
east  wind  which  reddens  one's  nose  and  eyelids  and 
makes  my  fire  and  hammock-chair  very  pleasant  in 
the  evenings,  which  would  be  getting  shorter  every 


fOR   LIFE  AND  LOV£.  4)t 

day  now,  if  I  did  not  pull  down  the  blinds  early, 
and  so  shut  out  the  dull  March  twilight,  which  is 
so  cheerless  and  so  long. 

One  afternoon — the  third  since  the  Rollestons* 
dance — 1  hear  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  I  feel  sure 
is  Olive's  knock ;  and,  having  my  hat  and  jacket 
on,  and  having  promised  not  to  keep  her  waiting  if 
she  called  for  me,  I  run  down-stairs  to  meet  her  in 
the  hall.  But,  instead  of  Olive  in  her  blue  and 
cardinal  dress,  I  come  rather  violently  against  a 
young  man  in  a  drab-colored  overcoat,  who  stands 
back  to  let  me  pass,  pulling  off  his  hat  as  he  endeavors 
to  place  himself  as  flatly  as  possible  against  the  wall. 

1  recognize  him  in  a  moment,  as  I  have  no  doubt 
he  recognizes  me.  But!  brush  by  him  brusquely, 
without  looking  up.  Before  I  have  passed  him,  I 
regret  having  so  far  forgotten  myself,  whatever  his 
offense  ;  but  when  I  glance  up,  he  is  looking  straight 
before  him,  ignoring  me  a!s  utterly  as  if  1  were  the 
plaster  figure  of  a  boy  with  a  basket  on  his  head 
which  stands  before  the  window  with  the  painted 
blind  on  the  landing.  The  whole  incident  does  not 
occupy  half  a  minute — it  is  over  almost  before  I  am 
conscious  that  it  has  happened.  But  it  leaves  an 
uncomfortable  impression  on  my  mind,  which  I 
cannot  shake  off. 

I  walk  along  the  sunny  side  of  the  gloomy  old 
brown-brick  street  looking  out  for  Olive,  whom  I 
hope  to  meet  before  I  reach  the  corner ;  but  all  the 
time  I  am  wondering  whetlier  Mr.  Gerard  Baxter 
••  cut  "  me,  or  whether  I  might  be  supposed  to  have 
administered  tliat  process  to  him.  I  have  acted 
with  unpardonable  rudeness,  no  doubt ;  but,  if  I  had 
Dowed  to  him,  would  lie  have  dared  to  pretend  not 
to  see  ?  Long  after  I  meet  Olive  Deane  the  ques- 
tion annoys  me — it  follows  me  into  Madame  Cron- 
iielTi's  house,  into  the  great  crowded  class  room. 


4i  ^k  LIFE  AND   LOVe. 

For  the  first  time  my  music-lesson  bores  me  ;  Herr 
von  Konig's  illustrations  of  the  weird  melodious 
music  of  "  Faust/'  as  compared  with  the  silver-sweet 
cadences  of  Kossini,  do  not  interest  me  ;  and 
Madame  Cronhelm  accuses  me  rather  sharply  once 
or  twice  of  singing  out  of  tune.  It  is  not  till  1  find 
myself  in  the  great  untidy  drawing-room  at  Dexter 
Square,  looking  at  Poppy's  latest  wedding-present, 
that  the  uncomfortable  feeling  of  having  acted 
untruly  to  myself  begins  to  Avear  away.  I  exorcise 
it  chiefly  by  "a  resolution  not  to  treat  Mr.  Baxter, 
should  I  ever  meet  him  again,  as  if  I  were  indeed 
the  "village  maiden  "  with  whose  fancy  for  a  land- 
scape-painter Olive  is  always  taunting  me. 

This  evening,  while  I  am  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope  comes  in  to  ask  me  how  I  like  a  pudding  she 
made  for  me,  because  it  used  to  be  a  favorite  of 
mine  long  ago  at  Woodhay,  when  I  was  a  child. 
From  the  pudding  our  conversation  wanders  away 
to  other  matters — the  dearness  of  everything  in 
London,  how  she  manages  in  the  way  of  catering 
for  her  lodgers. 

"I  do  the  best  I  can  for  them,"  she  says,  "es- 
pecially for  the  poor  young  man  up-stairs.  Another 
person  might  not  trouble  her  head  as  to  whether  his 
beef-steak  was  tough  or  not ;  but  I  take  just  as 
much  trouble  about  his  meals  as  I  do  about  your 
own.  I'm  not  one  to  neglect  a  lodger  because  he 
cannot  afford  grand  joints.  Many  a  time  I've  gone 
out  of  my  Avay  to  get  a  chop  or  a  cutlet  cheaper  for 
him,  thought  he'd  never  know  it — aye,  and  added  a 
bit  of  my  own  to  it  too.  In  a  house  like  this,  where 
there  is  so  much  going,  nobody  would  miss  a  couple 
of  slices  of  butcher's  meat." 

Is  he  perchance  fed  from  the  joint  that  left  my 
table,  this  proud  yo  ng  man  who  had  dared  to  telj 
me  that  I  had  taker     liberty  in  presenting  him  with 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  43 

a  bunch  of  violets  ?  The  thought  gives  me  pleasure 
—fills  me  with  a  little,  small,  womanly  triumph  of 
which  a  man  would  have  felt  ashamed. 

''  I  know  he's  hard  up  sometimes,  poor  lad  !  *'  Mrs. 
Wauchope  goes  on.  "  He  wouldn't  say  so  to  save 
his  life  ;  but  we  landladies  know  more  than  people 
tbink.  And  somehow  I  feel  more  for  the  proud 
distant  ones,  that  wouldn't  tell  you  their  troubles  if 
they  were  starving,  than  for  them  that  makes  a  poor 
mouth  about  themselves,  and  is  always  down  on  their 
luck." 

Had  I  dared  to  insult  him,  and  he  so  poor  as  this  ? 
My  mind  misgives  me  for  having  brushed  by  him  so 
cavalierly  this  morning  on  the  stairs,  for  having 
spoken  to  him  so  rudely  the  other  night  in  Berkeley 
Street.  He  must  have  cared  for  those  unfortunate 
violets,  or  he  would  never  have  worn  them,  half  with- 
ered as  they  were  ;  and  yet  I  had  vexed  him  so  much 
that  he  had  ground  them  with  his  heel  into  the  floor. 
I  am  ashamed  and  angry,  with  a  vague  uncomfort- 
able feeling  of  having  made  a  fool  of  myself  besides. 
The  next  time  I  meet  him,  I  shall  act  dilferently, 
though  it  is  a  fact  that  I  am  beginning  to  hate  him 
for  having  put  me  out  of  conceit  with  myself. 

But  the  next  time  I  meet  him  he  turns  the  tables 
upon  me — supposing  me  to  have  been  the  aggressor 
in  the  first  instance.  I  am  coming  into  the  house 
as  he  passes  out,  and  he  never  so  much  as  looks  at 
me  to  see  whether  I  mean  to  take  any  notice  of  him 
or  not.  So  that  he  has  himself  virtually  put  an  end 
to  our  acquaintance. 

Of  course  I  feel  mortified,  though  he  may  possibly 
think  it  was  my  wish  that  we  should  ignore  that  in- 
troduction at  the  Eollestons'.  But  I  know  that  it 
was  not  my  wish,  and  that  I  would  have  bowed  to 
him  this  time  if  I  had  got  the  chance,  and  his  look- 
ing in  that  determined  way  over  my  head  makes  me 


44  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

feel  very  angry.  However  I  do  not  encounter  him 
again  in  Carleton  Street  or  anywhere  else  for  more 
than  a  week,  and,  though  Mrs.  Wauchope  tells  me 
that  he  is  more  at  home  than  he  used  to  be,  and 
working  hard  at  his  picture,  I  gradually  forget  his 
rudeness  and  my  own  folly  in  busy  preparations  for 
Madame  Cronhelm's  concert,  which  is  to  take  place 
on  the  evening  of  the  twenty-first.  I  am  to  sing 
twice,  first  the  "Jewel  Song^'^from  'Taust,"  then 
Blumenthal's  ''Bend  of  the  River."  The  selection 
is  Madame  Cronhelm's  ;  but  both  songs  are  old 
friends  of  mine  and  old  favorites.  Herr  von  Konig 
tells  me  I  had  better  have  an  encore  ready,  unless  I 
care  to  repeat  those  two  ;  but  I  tell  him  laughingly 
that  that  would  be  a  very  unlucky  thing  to  do,  to  pre- 
pare an  encore  beforehand. 

On  the  day  before  the  concert,  Ellinor  and  Olive 
Deane  called  for  me  to  go  with  them  to  the  EoUestons 
— not  to  an  "  At  Home  "  there,  but  merely  to  pay 
a,  visit  to  the  girls.  They  are  to  give  a  fancy  ball 
early  in  April,  and  we  amuse  ourselves  with  port- 
folios of  sketches  of  national  and  fancy-dresses,  sit- 
ting in  the  great  handsome  somber  city  drawing-room, 
with  its  balconies  darkened  by  flowering  plants — 
five  or  six  girls  altogether,  with  two  kindred  spirits 
in  the  shape  of  Fred  Deane  and  Crauford  Rolleston, 
who  are  quite  as  good  on  the  subject  of  ladies'  dress 
as  ourselves. 

Katie  and  Crauford  Rolleston  and  I  are  studying 
a  colored  print  of  an  Alsacian  together,  and  I  am 
saying  how  pretty  the  black  velvet  cap  would  look 
on  a  blonde  head  like  Olive's,  when  two  people  come 
into  the  room  whom  I,  scarcely  looking  up,  and 
even  then  scarcely  seeing  them  in  the  dusk,  supposed 
to  be  Jack  Rolleston  and  his  brother-in-law  Captain 
Kingsley — one  of  them  I  know  to  be  Jack.  They 
stroll  over  to  a  group  at  one  of  the  windows — Olive 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  45 

and  Poppy  and  Susie  Rolleston,  and  I  think  no  moro 
about  them,  till  Crauford  says  suddenly — 

"  That  artist  over  there  ought  to  make  a  sketch 
for  you,  Katie — something  original,  you  know.  Any- 
thing  original  would  be  so  much  more  interesting 
than  these  old  hackneyed  national  costumes — every- 
body is  tired  to  death  of  them.  I  say,  Gerard, 
couldn't  you  invent  something  newer  than  a  Swiss 
peasant  or  a  vivandiere  9  " 

The  moment  he  says  "  Gerard  "  I  look  up.  Mr. 
Baxter  is  crossing  the  room  slowly  ;  in  another 
moment  he  has  shaken  hands  with  Katie,  and  ia 
looking  half  inquiringly,  half  deprecatingly,  at  me. 
Here  is  the  opportunity  I  have  been  longing  for,  and 
yet  some  strange  perversity  makes  me  look  steadily 
in  another  direction,  as  though  I  saw  him  not. 

"  I  am  not  much  of  a  hand  at  figures,"  Mr.  Bax- 
ter says,  without  any  pause  of  surprise,  or  anger,  or 
embarrassment.  "  I  never  put  them  into  my  pictures 
if  I  can  help  it,  and,  when  I  do,  I  leave  them  as  much 
as  possible  to  the  imagination.  But  I  dare  say  I  might 
suggest  some  characters,  and  then  you  could  find 
out  the  dress  they  must  wear — or  invent  it."^ 

"  Oh,  do  !  "  Katie  exclaims,  making  room 'for  him 
on  the  ottoman  beside  her,  and  not  observing  that 
he  and  I,  whom  she  had  seen  dancing  together,  had 
taken  no  notice  of  each  other.  "  That  will  be  de- 
lightful ;  won't  it,  Allie  ?  " 

*'  Very,"  I  say  shortly,  and  turn  to  Crauford  Rol- 
leston, who  however  is  listening  to  Mr.  Baxter,  and 
not  to  me. 

*' We  must  take  a  lesson  from  the  notable  Hannah 
Woolly,"  he  says,  laughing,  as  he  sinks  into  the  place 
Katie  has  made  for  him.  ''Don't  you  remember 
what  she  says  in  her  book,printed  in  1681,  and  quoted 
by  Charles  Lamb — '  Let  all  ingenious  women  have 
regard,  when  they  work  any  image,  to  work  it  aright. 


46  fOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

First  let  it  be  drawn  ■well,  and  then  observe  the 
directions  which  are  given  by  knowing  men.  I  do 
assure  you  1  never  worked  any  story,  or  single  per- 
son, without  informing  myself  both  of  the  visage 
and  habit,  as  f olloweth.  If  you  work  Jupiter,  he 
must  have  long  curled  black  hair,  a  purple  garment 
trimmed  with  gold,  and  sitting  upon  a  golden  throne, 
with  yellow  clouds  about  him."' 

*'  How  did  she  '  inform  herself '  of  that  ?  "  Katie 
laughs. 

"That's  what  always  puzzled  me,"  Gerard  Bax- 
ter says  gravely.  "It  is  that  which  makes  it  all  so 
delicious.  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  poets  for 
characters — '  MaudMiiller '  for  instance — 

"  '  Maud  Miiller  all  the  summer  day 

Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  him '  ?  " 

So  they  chatter  and  laugh,  while  I  turn  over  the 
sketches  on  my  lap  in  sulky  silence.  Suddenly  Katie 
goes  to  one  end  of  the  room  for  a  book  and  Crau- 
iord  to  a  table  for  another  ;  and  for  a  moment  we 
two  are  left  alone  on  the  great  ottoman,  with  nothing 
but  the  space  of  one  empty  velvet  triangle  between 
us. 

*'  Speak  to  me,"  he  says  suddenly,  in  a  half-whis- 
per, bending  his  head  to  look  into  my  face.  "  Why 
won't  you  speak  to  me  ?  " 

But  I  look  at  my  pictures  stubbornly,  feeling  that 
now  it  is  my  turn  to  make  myself  unpleasant— if  I 
can. 

"  What  have  T  done  that  you  should  send  me  to 
Coventry  like  this  ?  " 

Even  if  I  had  been  inclined,  I  have  no  time  to 
answer  him.  Katie  has  come  back  with  a  volume 
of  Tennyson  in  her  hand,  Crauford  with  Dore'a 
splendid  "  Dante,"  and  in  another  moment  they  are 
all  poring  over  the  illustrations  together,  Katie*g 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  47 

brown  head  yery  near  Gerard  Baxter's  dark  one, 
while  Crauford  takes  up  his  old  position  close  to  me. 
I  am  thus  in  a  manner  forced  into  their  consulta- 
tion, and,  though  I  am  playing  a  role  which  suits  me 
very  ill,  I  cannot  help  being  amused  by  it  and  laugh- 
ing and  suggesting  with  the  rest. 

*'So  your  handsome  friend  is  coming  to  Madame 
Cronhelm's  concert  ?  "  Olive  says,  on  our  way  back 
to  Carleton  Street. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"  1  ask  carelessly. 

"  He  said  so  just  now.  He  is  coming  with  the 
Rollestons,  Do  you  know  I  fancy  he  is  an  admirer 
of  Katie's — I  saw  their  heads  very  close  together  over 
those  prints  of  Dore's." 

I  do  not  like  the  suggestion  ;  it  vexes  me  all  the 
evening,  while  I  practise  my  concert-music,  while  I 
sit  in  my  pet  chair  over  the  fire,  reading  the  latest 
despatches  from  Woodhay  and  Yattenden,  while  I 
muse  with  my  feet  on  the  fender,  and  "  Probation  " 
half-open  on  my  knee.  Mr.  Baxter  has  been  in  his 
studio  all  the  evening  ;  he  must  have  left  the  door 
open,  for  I  can  hear  him  whistling  a  bar  of  a  song 
now  and  then,  sometimes  singing  it  in  a  desultory 
kind  of  way.  Once,  when  I  pause  to  listen,  my  door 
being  also  ajar,  I  can  distinguish  the  words  of  a 
song  I  know  : 

"Why  turn  away  when  I  draw  near ? 
Why  cold  to-day  ?     Once  I  was  dear. 
Then  thy  heart  stirred  and  flushed  thy  brow  I 
Never  a  word  welcomes  me  now. 
Speak  to  me — speak  !     Be  my  heart  heard, 
Or  will  it  break  for  one  kind  word  ; 
No  vow  to  bind,  no  pledge  I  seek, 
Only  be  kind.    Speak  to  me — speak  !  " 

I  listen  till  the  song  is  ended,  and  then  I  close  the 
door  softly  and  go  back  to  the  fire,  laughing.  I 
know  at  least  of  whom  he  is  thinking :  those  were 


48  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

the  very  words  he  had  said  to  me  this  afternoon— 
"  Speak  to  me.  Why  won't  you  speak  to  me  ?  "  The 
old  spirit  of  mischief  prompts  me  to  sit  down  to  the 
piano  and  sing  something  that  might  seem  like  an 
answer ;  but  the  disastrous  consequences  of  my 
former  folly  are  too  recent  to  encourage  me  to  trans- 
gress a  second  time. 


It  is  the  evening  of  Madame  Cronhelm's  concert, 
which  is  indeed  more  of  a  conversazione  than  a  con- 
cert, the  performers  mixing  among  the  audience 
when  not  actually  required  on  the  raised  platform 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  where  the  grand  piano 
and  violins  and  violoncello  are  located,  and  a  hum 
of  talk  filling  up  the  intervals  between  the  songs  and 
concerted  pieces.  We  all  enjoy  it,  having  so  many 
friends  among  both  performers  and  audience,  and, 
though  most  of  Madame  Cronhelm's  pupils  take 
part  m  the  choruses  only,  they  are  pleased  to  appeal 
in  public  in  any  capacity — if  so  exclusive  a  reunion 
can  be  called  public  at  all. 

My  "  Jewel  "  song  is  among  the  first  on  the  pro- 
gram ;  and,  when  I  have  sung  it,  and  when  Herr 
von  Konig  has  complimented  me  on  what  he  is 
pleased  to  call  the  delicate  grace  of  my  vocalism, 
and  called  my  voice  "  truly  celestial,"  I  make  my 
way  down  to  the  Kollestons,  whom  I  see  grouped  at 
a  little  distance  from  the  blaze  of  light  which  makes 
a  dazzling  center  of  the  stage.  But,  before  I  can 
reach  them,  moving  slowly  through  the  dense  crowd, 
with  my  long  black  satin  skirt  in  one  hand  and  my 
Ian  in  the  other,  Gerard  Baxter  appears,  I  know  not 
from  what  coign  of  vantage,  and  offers  me  his  arm. 

"  Allow  me  to  make  way  for  you,"  he  says,  smil- 
ing, **  and  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  having 
*  brought  down  the  house.' 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  49 

'*  Oh,  don't  you  flatter  me,"  I  laugh,  shrugging 
my  shoulders. 

**  Why  do  you  emphasize  the  'you '  ?  " 

"  Because  it  seems  unnatural  for  you  to  pay  com- 
pliments/' 

"  I  paid  you  a  compliment  once,  and  you  mis- 
understood it,"  he  says  more  gravely.  "  Perhaps  I 
may  find  some  safer  road  to  your  favor  than  that. 
Have  you  forgiven  me  yet  for  my  stupidity  ?  " 

*'  Long  ago,"  I  answer  frankly.  "  Let  us  forget 
all  about  a  piece  of  folly  for  which  I  am  sorry,  and 
of  which  I  am  heartily  ashamed." 

"  I  am  ready  to  forget  all  you  do  not  wish  me  to 
remember,"  he  rejoins  at  once. 

And  then,  instead  of  finding  myself  nearer  to  the 
EoUestons,  I  find  myself  sitting  on  a  chair  near  a 
cool  bank  of  ferns  and  exotics  with  Mr.  Baxter  stand- 
ing behind  me,  listening  to  a  girl  with  a  magnificent 
contralto  voice  singing  the  "  Clang  of  the  Wooden 
Shoon." 

I  listen  like  one  in  a  dream.  I  know  that  he  is 
there,  standing  near  me  in  his  somber  evening-rai- 
ment, and  that  I  am  happy,  with  a  strange  unac- 
countable sense  of  happiness,  which  I  could  not 
analyze  even  if  I  would. 

**Do  you  like  her  singing  ?"  he  asks,  when  the 
song  is  ended. 

**  She  has  a  very  pure  contralto  voice.  Her  voice 
is  better  than  her  method  of  singing.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  " 

**  Yes.  I  have  heard  people  say  that  she  is  study- 
ing for  the  stage,  that  she  is  going  to  Italy  to  finish 
her  musical  education." 

"  So  I  have  heard.  I  think  she  is  quite  right. 
Such  a  voice  as  hers  was  never  meant  to  *  rust  un- 
burnished,  not  to  shine  in  use.' " 

**  Or  yours  ?  "  he   questions  a  little  wistfully. 
4 


50  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  They  tell  me  you  are  studying  for  public  exhibi- 
tion too." 

Who  could  have  told  him  so  ?  The  idea  amuses 
me  so  much  that  I  do  not  immediately  advise  him 
to  the  contrary. 

"And  if  I  am,"  I  say,  laughing,  *'do  you  not 
think  that  I  am  right  in  putting  the  talent  which 
has  been  given  me  to  some  practical  use  ?  " 

*'  If  you  have  no  other  means  of  livelihood — yes/' 

'*  You  do  not  approve  of  singing  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"1  do  not  care  to  think  of  your  doing  it." 

*'But  one  can  do  it,  and  yet — " 

*'  I  hope  you  will  never  do  it,"  he  interrupts, 
with  more  passion  than  the  occasion  seems  to  war- 
rant.    "  I  liope  to  Heaven  you  will  never  do  it !  " 

"  But  if  I  must  do  it  ?  "  I  say,  wilfully  encourag- 
ing the  idea  which  he  somehow  or  other  seems  to 
have  taken  into  his  head.  "  If  my  daily  bread  de- 
pends upon  it,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  teach,  or  something  ! "  he  says  boy- 
ishly. "You  could  teach  other  girls,  couldn't 
you  ?  " 

"  But  fancy  teaching — fancy  wearing  one's  self 
out  with  a  troop  of  idle  girls,  as  Madame  Cronhelm 
does,  when  one  might  be  bowing  to  a  delighted 
audience  behind  the  footlights,  with  one's  arms  full 
of  bouquets.^' 

"  That's  just  what  I  hate,"  he  retorts  savagely. 
*'  That  is  just  what  no  girl — no  cousin  or  sister  of 
mine — should  ever  degrade  herself  by  doing.  How 
do  you  think  a  man — who  loved  you,  for  instance — 
would  like  to  see  other  men  level  their  opera  glasses 
at  you,  and  perhaps — indeed  certainly — make  com- 
ments on  your  personal  appearance  ?  " 

"  If  they  were  complimentary,  I  don't  suppose  she 
would  mind  very  much." 

**  But  he  would  mind.     If  he  were  her  brother  oi 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  $1 

her  husband,  he  would  rather' see  her  in  her  coflBu 
than  subject  her  to  such  degradation." 

"  How  delightfully  selfish  !  "  I  laugh,  shrugging 
my  shoulders. 

**  Oh,  we  are  all  very  selfish  !  "  Mr.  Baxter  allows  ; 
and  then,  the  overture  to  "Tannhiiuser"  commenc- 
ing, we  find  it  impossible  to  talk  any  more  for  the 
present.    » 

I  amuse  myself  by  looking  for  my  owti  particular 
friends  in  the  crowd.  Olive  is  in  a  corner  flirting 
with  Jack  Eolleston,  Poppy  is  sitting  calmly  beside 
her  fiance,  looking  as  lazily  handsome  as  ever,  Katie 
.Eolleston  is  looking  at  me.  I  wonder  if  she  would 
like  very  much  to  change  places  with  me,  and  if 
half  at  least  of  Olive's  suspicion  about  her  and 
Gerard  Baxter  is  true  ?  Perhaps  Katie  has  lost  her 
heart  to  this  artist-friend  of  her  brother's,  though, 
according  to  Mrs.  Wauchope,  Mr.  Baxter  does  not 
care  for  young  ladies.  I  am  puzzling  over  Katie's 
steadfast  look,  and  wondering  how  it  has  happened 
that,  among  all  our  common  friends,  nobody  has  ever 
told  Gerard  Baxter  who  I  am,  when  "  Tannhauser  " 
comes  to  an  end,  and  I  rise  from  my  seatjBlumenthal's 
**  Bend  of  the  Eiver  "  being  next  on  the  program. 

"You  practise  a  great  deal?"  Mr.  Baxter  ob- 
serves, as  he  offers  me  his  arm  again. 

•'  Yes,"  I  answer,  smiling,  as  I  meet  his  splendid 
dark  eves.     "  I  hope  it  does  not  annoy  you." 

"  K  ?) ;  Mrs.  Wauchope  will  tell  you  that  I  have 
never  been  so  industrious  as  since  you  came  to 
Carleton  Street." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  I  venture,  somewhat 
soberly.  "If  I  had  your  talent,  1  should  certainly 
not  let  it  lie  idle." 

"  I  mean  to  work  very  hard,  now,"  he  says  quickly. 
**  Before,  I  did  not  care  very  much  whether  I  mada 
a  name  for  myself  or  not.     But  now — I  do  I" 


52  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

So  he  thinks  I  spend  my  time  drumming  away  oh 
this  unfortunate  instrument  with  the  ultimate  ob- 
ject of  earning  my  livelihood  ?"  I  laugh,  sitting  be- 
fore the  piano  in  Mrs.  Wauchope's  drawing-room 
on  the  morning  after  Madame  Cronhelm's  soirie 
musicale.  "  He  thinks  I  am  a  penniless  art-student 
like  himself,  bound  to  earn  my  bread  by  whatever 
talent  I  possess,  unless  I  prefer  to  sit  down  and 
starve.  What  a  Joke  it  is,  and  how  Olive  will  en- 
joy it !  And  how  Aunt  Rosa's  stiff  gray  curls 
would  bristle  with  horror  if  she  knew  that  her  niece 
Allie  Somers  Scott  of  Woodhay  was  taken  for  a  poor 
young  woman  from  the  country  who  had  come  up 
to  these  cheap  furnished  lodgings  for  the  purpose 
of  studying  vocal  music  for  the  stage  !  " 

The  idea  is  too  delicious  !  I  laugh  to  myself  with 
such  frantic  enjoyment  that,  if  Mary  Anne  had 
chanced  to  come  into  the  room,  she  would  have  set 
me  down  either  as  an  idiot  or  as  some  harmless  kind 
of  lunatic.  I  shall  not  tell  Mr.  Baxter  the  mistake 
he  has  made — since  no  one  has  thought  of  telling 
him  before,  I  hope  they  will  not  tell  him  now. 
They  must  take  it  for  granted  that  he  knows  who  I 
am,  and  he  must  have  thought  no  questions  neces- 
sary, seeing  for  himself  my  mode  of  life.  As  for 
Mrs.  Wauchope,  she  probably  still  labors  under  the 
delusion  that  the  Count  and  the  **  drawing-rooms  '* 
have  never  yet  encountered  each  other  here  or  any- 
where else.  Mr.  Baxter  must  think  the  Deanes 
and  Rollestons  have  been  very  kind  in  taking  me 
up ;  but  then  he  knows  them  to  be  fond  of  art  and 
artistic  people,  especially  the  Rollestons,  and  likelj 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  53 

enough  to  make  much  of  me  for  the  sake  of  my  voice. 
"What  fun  it  is  to  think  of  myself  as  working  for  my 
living  !  What  fun  it  will  be  to  keep  up  the  de- 
lusion with  the  help  of  my  scampish  friend  Olive, 
who  loves  nothing  so  much  as  a  practical  joke  ! 

But  my  fun  is  put  a  stop  to  in  a  very  summary 
manner.  While  1  am  sitting  here  at  the  piano,  a 
note  from  Olive  is  put  into  my  hand  to  say  that 
Ellinor  has  scarlet  fever,  and  that  I  am  not  to  at- 
tempt to  come  near  the  house.  All  the  others  have 
had  it,  and  are  not  afraid  ;  but  Mrs.  Deane  will  not 
allow  them  to  come  near  me — I  must  not  expect 
even  to  see  Olive  at  Madame  Cron helm's  to-day,  as 
her  mother  does  not  think  it  would  be  right  to  al- 
low her  to  go  there  out  of  an  infected  house. 

I  am  very  sorry,  not  only  for  my  own  sake,  but 
for  Ellinor  and  all  of  them.  I  write  a  note  to  Olive, 
and  have  just  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go  out  at 
all  this  morning,  when  Ada  Rolleston  comes  running 
in  with  an  urgent  request  that  I  would  come  over 
and  spend  the  day  in  Berkeley  Street,  which  I  am 
rather  unwilling  to  do,  but  which  Ada  persuades 
me  into  doing  in  the  end. 

During  the  next  five  or  six  days  I  spent  most  of 
my  time  with  the  Rollestons.  Ada  pets  me  and 
spoils  me  very  much,  in  the  fashion  of  Olive  Deane, 
who  has  "  fagged ''  for  me  since  we  were  children 
together.  The  house  in  Berkeley  Street  is  a  very 
pleasant  one — there  are  always  visitors  coming  and 
going — clever  people,  poets,  painters,  artists,  and 
literary  men  and  women.  We  are  never  at  a  loss 
for  amusement,  between  the  preparations  for  the 
fancy-ball.  Jack's  amateur  studio,  and  the  great 
music-room  where  their  musical  friends  would  will- 
ingly play  symphonies  and  fantasies  all  day  long,  11 
they  could  find  any  one  to  listen  to  them. 

I  meet  Mr.  Baxter  there  very  often — iu  fact,  I 


54  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

may  say  every  day.  I  do  not  think  he  can  "be  work- 
ing very  hard — unless  he  paints  by  lamplight — he 
is  always  with  Jack  Rolleston,  smoking  in  his 
studio  or  chatting  to  us  in  tlie  drawing-room.  He 
even  stays  to  dinner  sometimes — I  know  it  because 
they  insist  upon  my  dining  there  once  or  twice, 
and,  when  I  dine  there,  he  dines  there  too.  They 
laugh  at  me  about  him — of  course,  girls  laugh  at 
each  other  for  very  little — and  call  him  my  hand- 
some sweetheart.  But  I  do  not  flirt  with  him, 
though  he  manages  somehow  to  be  always  in  my 
neighborhood,  and  I  cannot  help  knowing  that  he 
is  almost  always  looking  at  me. 

I  am  going  home  on  the  second  of  April,  to  come 
up  to  town  again  for  Poppy's  wedding,  unless  it  is 
postponed  on  account  of  Ellinor's  illness.  Olive, 
who  writes  to  me  almost  every  day,  says  they  are 
thinking  of  going  to  Brighton  as  soon  as  Ellinor  is 
strong  enough  to  travel,  and  I  should  not  be  sur- 
prised if  Poppy's  wedding  took  place  from  there. 

The  prospect  of  seeing  Woodhay  so  soon  does  not 
fill  me  with  unmixed  delight.  Something  has 
thrown  a  glamour  over  Mrs.  Wauchope's  shabby  fur- 
nished lodgings,  Avhich  my  own  beautiful  Manor 
has  never  known — "  a  light  that  never  was  on  land 
or  sea"  illumines  these  dusty  rooms,  a  "glory  and 
a  freshness  and  a  dream,^'  in  which  I  walk  like  one 
who  "on  a  mountain  takes  the  dawn."  I  am  so 
happy,  and  yet  I  cannot  say  wliat  has  made  me 
happy. 

One  day  the  Eollestons  take  nie  to  see  the  studio 
of  an  artist  of  whose  pictures  I  have  heard — a  man 
who  very  often  comes  to  Berkeley  Street,  and  who, 
gaunt  and  gray  and  disheveled  as  he  is,  is  one  of 
the  "  lions "  of  the  day.  As  we  go  up  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  studio,  we  meet  a  girl  coming  down 
—a  young  girl,  poorlv  dressed^  but  with  a  face  of 


J-OR  Life  and  Love.  55 

such  extraordinary  beauty  that  it  absolutely  dazzles 
me.  I  had  never  dreamed  that  a  human  factf 
could  be  so  lovely,  and  Mrs.  Eolleston,  who  has 
also  been  struck  by  it,  makes  the  same  remark  to 
the  great  painter  himself. 

"  Oh,  that,"  he  says,  laying  down  his  palette  and 
brushes,  "  is  a  poor  child  who  sits  to  me  as  a  model 
— her  name  is  White  !  Her  mother  is  a  wretched 
woman,  always  begging — sometimes  drunk.  Here 
is  her  picture — yes,  it  is  a  lovely  face." 

He  has  turned  a  canvas  which  had  been  standing 
with  its  face  to  the  wall,  and  we  are  looking  again 
at  the  girl  we  met  on  the  stairs.  There  are  the 
pure  Greek  outlines  which  Phidias  might  have  wor- 
shiped— the  tangled  red-gold  hair  tossed  back  from 
the  white  forehead,  glittering  like  a  halo  round  the 
angelic  head,  the  dark-blue  velvety  eyes,  the  ex- 
quisite smiling  lips.  The  great  artist  had  painted 
her  in  rags,  selling  violets — she  is  holding  out  a 
bunch  in  one  small  slender  hand,  as  she  leans 
against  the  pillar  of  some  great  portico,  looking 
out  of  the  canvas  with  those  innocent  wistful  eyes. 
I  stand  before  the  picture  for  a  long  time,  studying 
that  girl's  face.  I  envy  her,  though  she  is  in  rags 
and  I  am  wearing  a  dress  of  steel-gray  velvet  with 
a  bonnet  of  the  same,  whose  cost  I  scarcely  care  to 
remember.  How  happy  she  ought  to  be  with  a 
face  like  that  ?  What  matter  about  cold  and  hun- 
ger and  rags,  if  one  could  smile  on  the  beholder 
with  those  ethereal  eyes,  with  those  exquisite  child- 
ish lips  !  So  I  think,  looking  down  at  the  lifeless 
canvas.  And  as  I  look  a  shiver  runs  through  my 
veins,  as  though  a  door  had  opened  somewhere,  let- 
ting in  a  breath  of  some  cold  outer  air.  It  is  a  cu- 
rious sensation — I  have  heard  of  people  feeling  the 
like  when  one'  walked  over  their  grave  that  was  to 
'De.    Yet  why  should   this  girl's  face  make  me 


$6  'for  life  and  love. 

shiver  ?  It  is  as  beautiful  as  the  face  of  an  angel, 
and  as  innocent — it  is  not  very  likely  that  it  should 
ever  do  me  any  harm  ! 

This  evening  the  Rollestons  insist  upon  sending 
their  carriage  to  take  me  back  to  Berkeley  Street 
to  dinner.  I  should  have  spent  a  lonely  evening  if 
I  had  not  gone,  and  yet  I  go  rather  unwillingly,  hav- 
ing had  a  pile  of  letters  from  Woodhay  and  Yat- 
tenden  in  the  morning,  which  I  have  not  yet  had 
time  to  read.  But  the  temptation  to  spend  the 
evening  in  that  pleasant  house  is  too  strong  to  re- 
sist— against  my  better  judgment  I  allow  myself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  seven  o'clock  finds  me  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Berkeley  Street ;  and  as  usual,  I 
find  Mr.  Baxter  there  before  me. 

'*  I  don't  think  you  are  working  very  hard,"  I 
say  to  him  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

**  I  think  we  have  both  been  rather  idle  lately," 
he  retorts,  with  his  boyish  smile. 

"  I  have  been  here  every  day — I  have  no  time  to 
practise." 

**  And  I  have  been  here  every  day — I  have  no 
time  to  paint." 

"  But  how  are  you  to  make  this  great  name  for 
yourself  if  you  do  not  work  ?  " 

^*  And  you  ?  "  he  suggests,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  in  any  great  hurry  to  make  a 
name  for  myself  ! " 

*'  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  hope  you  will  neve» 
make  a  name  for  yourself  at  all." 

"  Thank  you  !  " 

"  I  mean  that  I  hope  you  will  never  make  that 
Toice  of  yours  public  property." 

'*  What  then  is  to  become  of  me  ?  "  I  ask,  with 
laudable  gravity. 

«  Let  some  man  work  for  you,"  he  says  hurrie^'f. 


\ 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  57 

his  boyish  face  flushing  like  a  girl's.  "  Give  some 
man  the  chance  of  making  a  name  for  himself — for 
your  sake  ! " 

I  shake  my  head  gravely,  looking  out  into  the 
twilight.  We  are  standing  at  an  open  window  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  long  music-room.  All  the 
rest  of  the  party  are  clustered  round  the  piano  at 
the  lower  end,  where  some  music-mad  friend  of 
Crauford's  is  playing  Berlioz's  "  Syraphonie  Fan- 
tastique."  These  are  all  in  a  warm  glow  of  candle- 
light from  the  lights  on  the  piano,  but  we,  stand- 
ing at  this  distant  window,  are  illumined  only  by 
the  low  glimmer  from  a  faint  clear  apple-green  sky 
against  which  the  houses  stand  up  picturesquely  dark 
and  indistinct,  and  in  which,  just  above  the  shadowy 
chimney  tops,  burns  one  great  red  lovely  star. 

*'  Miss  Scott,  do  you  think  the  man  you  marry  will 
ever  allow  you  to  sing  on  the  stage  ? 

His  voice  startles  me,  low  and  quietly  as  the  words 
are  spoken.  I  look  up  at  the  tall  dark  figure,  indis- 
tinct in  the  twilight  ;  and  suddenly  this  boy,  with 
his  beautiful  eyes,  his  desperate  poverty,  his  passion- 
ate pride,  seems  to  take  me  by  the  hand  and  lead  me 
into  some  "  faery-land  forlorn  "  of  which  I  have 
never  dreamed  in  all  my  life  before. 

*'  I  do  not  think  about  it,''  I  answer  with  truth. 

*^  Miss  Scott,  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

This  question  takes  me  so  entirely  by  surprise  that 
it  conveys  no  meaning  to  my  mind. 

"  Allie,  will  you  marry  me,  and  give  me  the  right 
to  work  for  you  ?  " 

I  look  up  into  the  eager  dark  eyes  of  the  lad  who 
is  so  eager  to  work  for  me,  but  who  cannot  or  will 
not  work  for  himself. 

"  You  with  a  wife  ! "  I  exclaim,  with  a  cruel  smile. 
**  It  seems  to  me  to  be  as  much  as  you  can  com- 
pass—'" 


58  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

**  To  *ive  myself.  You  are  very  bitter  ;  I  think 
you  take  a  pleasure  in  hurting  me — I  think  you 
always  did ! 

"  Forgive  me/'  I  say,  holding  out  my  hand  ;  it 
looks  very  white  and  slim  in  the  half-light,  as  I  am 
sure  I  look  myself  in  my  faint  white  clinging  gown. 
**It  was  kind  of  you  to  wish  to  help  me  in  the 
only  way  you  could — " 

**  Kind  !  "  he  interrupts  passionately,  taking  the 
hand  I  have  offered  to  him  and  daring  to  press  his 
warm  young  lips  against  it.  "  I  am  kind  to  you, 
Allie,  if  you  call  it  kind  to  love  you  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  heart  and  soul ! " 

*'  But  you  have  only  known  me  for  so  short  a 
time,"  I  say,  drawing  my  hand  away  coldly.  *'  You 
can  know  nothing  about  me." 

*'  I  know  that  I  love  you — I  know  that  I  have 
loved  you  since  the  very  first  evening  I  met  you  here. 
I  believe  I  fell  in  love  with  your  voice  before  I  ever 
saw  you,  though  Mrs.  Wauchope  thought  she  nipped 
any  danger  of  that  kind  so  cleverly  in  the  bud  ;  ■" 
and  he  laughs  a  little — the  old  boyish  laugh.  I 
think  of  the  violets  and  am  silent,  looking  at  that 
great  solitary  star,  at  the  houses  standing  up  black 
against  the  gold-green  sky.  The  quaint  fantastic 
music  of  the  SympJionie  fills  the  room,  the  group 
about  the  piano  listen  to  it  eagerly,  with  the  light 
full  on  their  preoccupied  faces ;  only  we  two,  are 
alone  together  in  the  twilight  window,  two  tall 
shadows  against  the  faint '  clear  sadness  of  the 
sky. 

"  We  should  be  poor,  Allie  ;  but,  if  we  cared  for 
each  other,  that  would  not  matter.  And  I  would 
work  so  hard  for  you — I  would  work  day  and  night 
to  become  famous  for  your  sake — nothing  would  ba 
too  hard  for  me  with  such  a  hope  as  that." 

"He  looks  as  if  he  could   "pile  him  a  palace 


fOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  50 

^ra'^lit,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he  loved/'  as  he 
stands  there,  so  young  and  strong  and  full  of  life 
and  hope. 

"  But  what  fools  people  would  think  us  I  "  I  say, 
smiling,  and  wondering  what  he  will  say  when  he 
hears  the  truth  about  me. 

"  Should  we  care  for  that  ?  "  he  exclaims,  with 
scornful  dark  eyes.  If  we  were  happy  we  should 
care  very  little  what  otlier  people  said.  We  are  both 
poor,  and,  if  we  choose  to  be  poor  together,  it  is 
nobody's  business  but  our  own." 

Perhaps  my  silence  says  ''what  I  would  nevei 
swear,"  for  he  comes  nearer  to  me,  bending  his  dark 
head  to  look  into  my  eyes,  as  he  did  once  before  in 
this  very  room,  when  we  quarreled  about  a  bunch 
of  withered  violets. 

"  AUie,  couldn't  you  care  for  me  enough  to  'lay 
your  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust  to  me '  ?  " 

Could  I  ?  Can  I  ?  He  takes  me  in  his  arms,  he 
kisses  me  passionately,  and  I,  Allie  Somers  Scott  of 
Woodhay,  submit  to  it  with  an  amazed  docility 
which  I  could  not  have  believed  possible  a  fortnight 
ago.  And  so  we  stand  for  "one  vast  moment"  of 
intolerable  happiness  ;  and  then,  with  a  laugh  which 
ends  with  a  sigh,  I  push  him  away  from  me. 

"  Oh,  this  is  folly  ! "  I  exclaim,  with  rather  tardy 
wisdom,  it  must  be  confessed.  "  We  are  mad  to 
think  of  such  a  thing  for  a  minute.  You  have 
nothing,  and  yet  you  want  to  burden  yourself  with 
a  wife  whose  only  mode  of  earning  her  living  you 
condemn  ! " 

"  My  wife  shall  never  sing  for  her  bread  ! "  the 
boy  says,  throwing  up  his  head. 

"  Then  how  do  you  propose  to  live  ?  " 

"  I  shall  live  by  my  art." 

*'But  you  must  practise  your  art  before  you  ca» 
live  by  it." 


6o  t-OR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"And  I  intend  to  practise  it." 

"  And  if  you  fail  ?  " 

'*  I  shall  not  fail  with  such  an  incentive  to  work." 

"You  are  very  confident,"  I  say,  gazing  into  the 
eyes  which  look  dark  as  night  under  their  black 
lashes.     But  suppose  you  should  not  succeed  ?  " 

"  I  shall  succeed." 

"  But  you  seem  to  me  to  be  more  anxious  to  be- 
wilder by  audacious  originality  than  to  conquer  by 
sober  work,"  I  say  deliberately. 

**I  cannot  be  conventional  !  "  he  exclaims,  frown- 
ing a  little.  "  I  have  my  own  ideas  about  choice  of 
gubject  and  manner  of  dealing  with  it,  and  I  shall 
adopt  the  ideas  of  no  other  man  living." 

"  But  your  idea  may  not  please  the  public." 

*'  If  the  public  cannot  understand  me,  it  is  their 
own  loss." 

**  And,  meanwhile,  you  and  those  belonging  to 
you  may  starve." 

He  is  silent,  looking  down  at  me — at  the  girl  in 
the  long  pale  gown  who  dares  to  stand  there  and 
call  not  only  his  own  steadfastness  of  purpose  in 
question,  but  the  principles  of  his  art. 

*'  Truth  must  conquer  in  the  end,"  he  says  at  last. 

*'  If  it  is  backed  up  by  deliberate,  mechanical, 
matter-of-fact  toil." 

"  I  will  work  for  you,  Allie,  if  you  will  only  give 
me  the  chance  !  " 

''Will  you  work  for  me,  Gerard  ?" 

He  bends  down  and  kisses  my  hair — a  quick  pas- 
sionate kiss. 

"  As  long  as  there  is  breath  in  my  body,  darling." 

''  Then  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  I  say 
gravely  and  deliberately.  "  On  the  day  that  you 
sell  a  picture  for  one  hundred  pounds,  if  you  come 
and  ask  me  to  marry  you,  Gerard  Baxter,  I  will  say, 
•Yes/" 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  6l 

*'  For  the  sake  of  the  hundred  pounds,  Allie  ?  "^ 
smiling  a  little. 

*'  No,"  I  answer,  smiling  back  again  ;  "  but  be* 
cause  it  will  prove  to  me  that  you  have  begun  to 
work," 

*'  You  will  marry  me  then,  Allie  ?" 

"Yes." 

*'  I  won't  be  long  painting  that  picture  !  "  he  ex* 
claims  boyishly.  "  My  darling,  do  you  know  how 
happy  you  have  made  me  ?  " 

He  is  standing  close  to  me,  his  arms  round  me, 
his  dark  head  lowered  against  my  fair  one,  our  two 
foolish  hearts  full  of  a  foolish  dream  never  to  be 
fulfilled. 

*'  Allie  ! "  they  call  to  me  from  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  turning  their  dazzled  eyes  from  the  piano 
and  Crauford's  long-haired  friend  to  peer  into  our 
shadowy  space  of  twilight.  "  Allie,  come  and  sing 
*Galla  Water.'" 

I  move  down  the  room  in  my  long  dress,  a  faint 
white  presence  with  no  spot  of  darker  color  about 
it  than  the  bunch  of  heliotrope  fastened  into  the 
coil  of  filmy  lace  about  the  throat,  and  followed 
by  a  darker  figure  which  looks  like  its  shadow  in 
the  faint  perspective  of  the  long  shadowy  room. 

"  "We  want  you  to  sing  '  Galla  Water,'  Allie,  and 
'Logie  o' Buchan.'" 

And  I  sit  down  and  sing  them  with  the  careless 
gaiety,  the  dash  and  insouciance  without  which, 
Olive  Deane  tells  me,  I  should  not  be  Allie  Scott. 
But  all  the  time  I  am  thinking  of  two  shadowy  fig- 
ures outlined  against  a  faint  gold-green  sky,  of  a 
star  that  "  flickered  into  red  and  emerald,"  of  a 
voice  that  had  said  '*  And  you  will  marry  me, 
Allie  ? "  and  of  another  voice  that  had  answered 
"Yes." 


62  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

'*  Your  aunt  has  come." 

Such  is  Mary  Anne's  greeting  to  me  in  the  hall 
of  No.  33  Carleton  Street. 

"  My  aunt  !     What  aunt  ?  " 

*'  Your  aunt  from  the  country.  She  came  about 
an  hour  ago,  and  was  that  surprised  to  find  you  had 
gone  out ! " 

"  But  what  has  she  come  for  ?  Is  anything  wrong 
at  home  ?  " 

"Not  a  thing  in  the  world.  She  says  she  wrote 
to  tell  you  she  was  coming,  and  to  have  a  room 
ready,  because  she  meant  to  stay.'' 

"  Meant  to  stay  !  "  I  repeat,  thinking  of  the  un- 
opened letters  of  the  morning. 

"  So  she  says.  She's  in  the  drawing-room  now^ 
giving  it  to  the  mistress." 

*'  Giving  her  what  ?"  Lask  stupidly. 

**  A  piece  of  her  mind,  she  says  ;  but  I  think  it's 
the  whole  of  it  ! "  the  maid-of -all-work  says,  grin- 
ning. '*  It's  all  along  of  the  Count  she  be  come,  I 
expect.  She  says  Mrs.  Wauchope  deceived  her 
about  having  no  lodgers  but  the  Misses  Pryce." 

Who  can  have  told  Aunt  Rosa  anything  about 
him  ?  And  what  a  state  of  mind  she  must  have 
been  in  before  she  would  decide  to  come  up  to  town 
m  such  a  hurry  ! 

*'  Aunt  Rosa  ! "  I  exclaim,  in  a  tone  of  the  most 
innocent  astonishment.  "■  My  dear  Aunt  Rosa,  I  am 
so  sorry  you  arrived  while  I  was  out." 

The  sentence  may  be  ambiguous  ;  but  Aunt  Rosa 
does  not  perceive  it. 

'*  So  am  I,"  she  says,  when  she  has  planted  a  cold 
kiss  upon  my  nose.  "  I  did  not  think  you  came  up 
to  London  to  go  to  evening  parties." 

*'  But  I  was  with  the  Rollestons,  aunt — perfectly 
respectable  people." 

**  Humph  I    And  how  did  you  come  home  ?  " 


fOk  LtFE  AND  LOVE.  63 

'*They  sent  me  home  in  their  cari^iage — they 
always  do/' 

"  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday.  Is  there  anything 
the  matter  with  the  postal  arrangements  ?  " 

*'Not  that  I  know  of,  Aunt  Eosa." 

"  Then  I  am  to  conclude  that  you  never  open  my 
letters?" 

"Iwas  in  a  hurry  this  morning — breakfast  was 
late,  and  I  was  afraid  of  being  late  at  Madame  Cron- 
helm's.  I  did  glance  through  your  letter ;  but  I 
must  have  overlooked  anything  you  said  about 
coming  up  to  town." 

She  says  nothing  to  me  about  Mrs.  Wauchope's 
contraband  lodger  ;  but  I  know,  as  well  as  if  she 
had  told  me,  that  somebody  has  been  officious  enough 
to  write  and  tell  her  all  about  him.  I  suspect  Mrs. 
Deane ;  but  I  ask  Aunt  Eosa  no  questions,  nor  does 
she  volunteer  any  information  to-night. 

"  It  seems  Mrs.  Wauchope  has  no  spare  room  for 
me.     In  those  circumstances — " 

"  My  dear  Aunt  Eosa,  you  can  have  my  room.  I 
will  sleep  here  on  the  sofa,  and  just  run  in  there  to 
dress.  There  is  a  dressing-room — Indeed,  perhaps 
I  had  better  have  a  shake-down  in  the  dressing- 
room,  if  Mrs.  "Wauchope  can  manage  it." 

"  She  is  managing  it  now.  I  don't  like  that 
woman,  Eosalie.     She  has  a  most  virulent  tongue." 

*'  She  has  always  been  civil  to  me,  Aunt  Eosa." 

"  Oh,  because  you  just  let  her  do  as  she  pleases! 
Have  you  been  burning  nothing  but  Scotch  coal 
since  you  came  up  to  town  ?  " 

''I  have  had  very  good  fires,  auntie." 

"  I  am  surprised  at  it,  then.  That  coal  in  the 
grate  is  nothing  but  rubbish,  though  I  dare  say  you 
are  paying  the  very  highest  price  for  it.  And  the  tea 
she  gave  me  was  execrable — perfectly  execrable  ! " 

*'  I'm  not  much  judge  of  tea,  Aunt  Eosa,"  I  say, 


64  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfe. 

yawning.  *'I  hope  you've  brought  me  up  some 
jam  from  Woodhay,  though,  and  some  of  our  own 
batter." 

"  I've  done  no  such  thing.  You're  coming  home 
Irith  me  to-morrow — there's  been  enough  and  too 
much  of  this  folly,  and  your  uncle  is  very  sorry  he 
was  ever  foolishly  persuaded  into  giving  his  consent 
to  it." 

"  To-morrow,  Aunt  Rosa  ! " 

''Not  a  day  later  than  to-morrow." 

**  But  don't  you  want  to  see  something  of  Lon- 
don, auntie  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  the  last  of  it.  I'm  only  sorry  I 
didn't  know  what  I  know  now  three  weeks  ago,  and 
your  ridiculous  freak  would  have  come  to  an  end  a 
great  deal  sooner.  How  your  Uncle  Todhunter 
could  ever  have  agreed  to  such  an  egregious  piece 
of  folly  passes  my  comprehension  !  " 

Poor  Aunt  Rosa  !  If  she  only  knew  thp,t  the 
steed  was  stolen,  how  much  less  clatter  she  ^would 
have  made  in  locking  the  door  !  In  my  heart  I  con- 
fess that  she  is  right.  I  have  got  into  mischief 
here  in  London,  or  into  what  she  would  consider 
mischief.  If  I  had  never  come  up  to  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope's  furnished  lodgings,  I  should  probably  never 
have  met. 

"  That  landscape-painter 
Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me." 

*'I  cannot  possibly  go  home  to-morrow,  Aunt 
Rosa,"  I  say,  laying  aside  my  squirrel-lined  cloak 
and  the  fan  which  I  had  been  holding  in  my  hand 
since  I  came  into  the  room.  "I  must  tell  Madame 
Cronhelm  that  I  am  leaving  town,  and  I  must  say 
good-by  to  the  Rollestons." 

*'  You  can  write  to  them  both.  A  note  will  do 
Just  as  well." 

**  I  shall  not  write.     You  can  go  home  to-morrow. 


^OR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  6$ 

and  I  will  follow  the  next  day,  if  you  do  not  care  to 
stay  in  London/' 

"I  shall  not  leave  you  behind  me,  Rosalie.'* 

**  Very  well,  then  :  you  must  stay  till  the  day 
after  to-morrow." 

"  But  your  uncle  sent  word  by  me  that  you  were 
to  come  home  at  once." 

"  I  shall  not  go  to-morrow,"  I  repeat  obstinately ; 
and  Aunt  Rosa,  knowing  me  of  old,  thinks  it  better 
not  to  press  the  point. 

I  must  see  my  boy  again.  This  is  the  idea  which 
is  uppermost  in  my  mind.  I  cannot  go  away  with- 
out seeing  him  ;  but  how  shall  I  manage  it  ?  I  may 
not  chance  to  meet  him  at  the  Rollestons'  to-morrow  ; 
and,  if  not,  shall  I  be  forced  to  go  away  without  bid- 
ding him  good-by  ?  I  knew  this  evening  that  our 
time  together  would  not  be  long,  but  I  did  not 
dream  that  it  would  be  so  short  as  this. 

**  I  hope  you  won't  be  very  uncomfortable,  Aunt 
Rosa.  You  won't  find  the  hair  mattress  as  soft  as 
your  feather-bed  at  home." 

"  I  don't  expect  to  be  comfortable.  The  whole 
place  appears  to  me  wretched  and  shabby  to  a  de- 
gree," 

''  It  is  not  at  all  wretched,  I  assure  you.  And  I 
have  improved  greatly  since  I  went  to  Madame  Cron- 
helm's." 

Aunt  Rosa  sniffs,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  'most 
uncomfortable  chair  in  the  room. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  to  bed,"  she  says.  "  That 
woman  has  quite  tired  me  out." 

I  light  her  bedroom  candle  with  alacrity,  and  pre- 
cede her  into  the  inner  room.  A  little  camp-bed  has 
been  put  up  for  me  in  the  dressing-room  ;  but,  be- 
fore I  go  to  bed,  and  after  I  have  helped  Aunt  Rosa 
to  unpack  her  night-garments,  I  creep  back  to  the 
dying  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  sitting  on  th« 


66  FOk  LIFE  AND  LOVl^ 

rug,  lean  my  chin  on  my  palms,  and  think  of  thcjse 
two  figures  in  that  twilight  window,  and  of  a  foolish 
promise  made  only  to  be  broken.  But  if  he  comes 
to  me,  shall  I  not  say  "  Yes  "  ?  If  he  keeps  his  share 
of  the  agreement,  shall  I  not  keep  mine  ?  A  foolish 
happy  smile  curves  my  lips  in  the  dying  firelight-— 
the  lips  that  he  has  kissed  by  the  light  of  that  great 
solitary  evening  star.  Yes,  1  will  keep  my  promise, 
Gerard.     But  will  you  keep  yours  ? 

*  *  *  *  «  41= 

I  go  to  Madame  Cronhelm^s  in  the  morning,  aud 
after  that  to  the  Eollestons'.  The  Eollestons  are 
sorry  I  am  going  away — Ada  especially.  Mr.  Baxt  er 
is  not  at  Berkeley  Street,  nor  does  any  one  mention 
his  name.  I  come  back  to  luncheon  at  Carleton. 
Street,  though  the  Eollestons  try  hard  to  keep  me, 
and  have  just  finished  that  long-delayed  meal  when 
Mary  Anne  comes  in  with  a  card  in  lier  grimy  hand, 
which  she  proffers  to  me. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"    Aunt  Eosa  asks  suspiciously. 

"  The  gentleman  upstairs,"  Mary  Anne  answers, 
with  malicious  enjoyment  in  either  squinting  eye. 

**  Who  ?"  Aunt  Eosa  exclaims,  letting  her  knit- 
ting fall  into  her  lap  in  the  exlTemity  of  her  amaze- 
ment, 

''Ask  Mr.  Baxter  to  walk  in,"  I  say  quietly, 
'^xtunt  Eosa,  this  is  my  friend  Mr.  Baxter.  Mr. 
Baxter — Miss  Herrick.'* 

Gerard  Baxter  bows.  Aunt  Eosa  inclines  her  head 
stifiiy,  her  eyes  blazing  through  her  spectacles  like 
the  eyes  of  her  own  cat  Muff  when  he  is  vexed. 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  you  were  going  away," 
Gerard  Baxter  says,  as  he  sinks  into  a  chair  beside 
me. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer,  laughing.  My  leave  is  stopped  !  '* 

Aunt  Eosa  is  rather  deaf.  Unless  we  speak  in  a 
kind  of  raised,  sustained  tone,  s<he  can  hear  very  liWio 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  6/ 

of  what  we  say  ;  and  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to 
do  this — all  the  time. 

"I  had  a  great  deal  of  assurance  to  venture  to  call 
uj*on  you,  hadn't  I  ?"     Gerard  says,  smiling. 

"  I  should  have  been  sorry  not  to  have  wished  you 
gcod-by." 

*'  Allie,  may  I  write  to  you  sometimes  ?  " 

*' Oh,  no  ;  1  think  not  I"  I  answer  hurriedly.  *'I 
'jould  not  answer  your  letters." 

"  But  how  am  t  to  live  without  either  seeing  or 
hearing  from  you  ?" 

*'You  must  work,"  I  say,  smiling  a  little  ;  but 
there  are  tears  in  my  eyes. 

"I  intend  to  work.  I  have  been  wild  enough, 
Allie — you  don't  know  how  much  of  the  Bohemian 
there  is  in  me — but  the  thought  of  you  will  steady 
me,  darling  ;  while  I  love  you  I  shall  hate  everything 
I  know  you  would  not  like." 

Something  in  the  admission,  frank  as  it  is,  saddens 
me.  Is  his  love  for  me  really  great  enough  to  work 
such  a  change  in  him  as  this  ?  If  he  forgets  me, 
will  he  not  relapse  into  his  old  idle  ways,  and  then 
be  sorry,  and  so  despair  of  ever  doing  any  good  ? 

'*  Gerard,  will  you  promise  to  let  me  know  the  day 
that  you  forget  me  ?  " 

"  Forget  you,  Allie  !  " 

*'  If  you  do  forget  me,  promise  to  tell  me  so  at 
once." 

"  I  do  promise  ;  but  that  day  will  never  come, 
dnrling.  I  have  never  loved  any  woman  but  you, 
Allie,  and  I  never  shall." 

Aunt  Eosa  glows  upon  us,  speechless  with  wrath 
and  indignation.  What  are  we  whispering  about, 
this  foreign-looking,  shabby,  unabashed  young  man 
and  I  ?  We  make  the  conversation  more  general 
after  this  ;  and  in  about  twenty  miuutes  (Jerard  geta 
up  to  go. 


68  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  Good-by,"  he  says,  holding  out  his  hand  to  me, 
having  said  good-by  to  Aunt  Rosa.  *'  It  is  hard 
that  we  can't  have  any  better  good-by  than  this, 
Allie  isn't  it  ?  " 

My  eyes  are  full  of  foolish  tears,  so  full  that  I  am 
afraid  they  will  flow  over  and  attract  Aunt  Rosa's 
attention.     But  x\unt  Rosa  is  not  looking  at  me. 

*''  Good-by  ! "  I  echo  mechanically. 

And  so  he  leaves  me,  and  returns  to  his  studio 
and  his  unfinished  pictures,  while  I  pack  away  a 
few  tears  into  my  portmanteau — the  first  I  have 
shed  since  I  was  a  child. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

"  Well,  Allie,  the  more  I  look  at  you,  the  more 
I  think  you  the  most  extraordinary  girl  in  the 
world  ! " 

''Extraordinary,  Olive  ?" 

"  To  think  you  could  have  been  satisfied  with 
those  wretched  old  rooms  in  Carleton  Street  when 
you  had  such  a  home  as  this  ! " 

**I  was  very  happy  in  Carleton  Street,"  I  answer 
dreamily. 

*'  Happy  !     Because  that  boy  was  there." 

''  And  I  was  not  a  bit  obliged  to  your  mother  for 
bringing  Aunt  Rosa  down  upon  me." 

**  But  mama  did  not  like  your  being  there  alone, 
Allie." 

*'  What  nonsense  !  I  am  my  own  mistress,  Olive, 
•nd  can  do  as  I  like." 

"Not  till  to-morrow,  my  dear,"  Olive  laughs. 
"After  to-morrow,  you  pan  please  yourself." 

"And  I  mean  to  do  it,  I  assure  you." 

We  are  walking  from  the  vicarage  to  Woodhaj'— 


Ji-OR  LIFE  AND  LOVfe.  69 

it  is  only  a  tew  minutes'  walk  through  the  wood.  It 
is  June  weather — exquisite  weather  ;  all  my  woods 
are  a  mystic  'tangle  of  green  leaf  and  shadow  and 
golden-dropping  sunshine,  all  my  meadows  are 
bloomy  purple,  "  sighing  for  the  scythe."  Between 
Woodhay  and  the  vicarage  there  runs  a  little  rush- 
ing brook,  and  beyond  the  brook,  on  my  side  of  it, 
a  hundred  feet  of  woodland  runs  up  steeply,  with  a 
wealth  of  overhanging  ferns  and  tangled  foliage 
throwing  their  shadow  far  across  the  shadowy  combe. 
It  is  up  this  southern  slope  that  we  are  winding  by 
a  steep  path  overhung  with  woodland  tangle  of 
woodbine  and  blackberry  bramble,  with  a  thousand 
tiny  ferns  and  velvet  mosses  laughing  at  us  from 
the  crevice  of  every  lichen-spotted  rock. 

"  Do  you  ever  think  of  that  boy  of  yours,  Allie  ?  " 
Olive  asks,  as  we  climb  the  wooded  steep  together, 
bathed  in  alternate  streaks  of  sun  and  shadow. 

"  Think  of  him  ?  "  I  repeat  inanely. 

"  You  used  to  be  great  friends,  you  know, 
though  I  think  you  have  forgotten  him.  Jack  Rol- 
leston  used  to  chaff  him  about  you — Jack  thought 
he  really  cared  awfully  for  you,  Allie,  joking  apart.'* 

"  Jack  Rolleston  is  a  great  fool,  Olive  ! " 

**0h,  well,  I  know  Jack  hasn't  much  sense  I  But 
you  know  that  time  Jack  came  down  to  Brighton 
for  Poppy's  wedding,  he  said  Gerard  Baxter  was 
working  himself  into  skin  and  bone,  and  had  grown 
quite  steady,  and  meant  to  make  a  name  for  him- 
self." 

''  Yes,  so  you  told  me,"  I  remark  carelessly, 
though  remembering  all  about  it  at  least  as  well  as 
Olive  does. 

*'  But  he  has  fallen  off  since  then,"  Olive  says, 
shaking  her  blonde  head.  ''  Poor  fellow,  I  think  he 
met  with  some  disappoii  tment  about  his  picture — 
he  was  obliged  to  sell  it  01  something,  and  they  only 


^0  fOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfi. 

gave  him  eighty  for  it,  whereas  Jack  said  he  valued 
It  at  over  a  hundred,  and  it  would  not  have  been  a 
penny  too  much." 

A  little  sharp  pain  runs  through  my  heart  like  a 
knife.  This  was  what  I  had  dreaded — this  reaction 
after  possible  disappointment. 

*'  I  am  sure  you  are  sorry  for  him,  Allie,"  Olive 
says,  looking  at  me.  "  We  used  to  call  him  your 
handsome  sweetheart,  you  know — poor  boy,  he  used 
to  follow  you  about  like  your  shadow  !  " 

"  You  speak  of  him  as  if  he  were  dead,  Olive,"  I 
say  a  little  sharply. 

"I  am  afraid  he  is  going  to  the  bad,  and  that  is 
worse,"  Olive  observes  soberly.  "I  met  Jack  Eol- 
leston  the  other  evening,  and  he  told  me  he  hardly 
ever  saw  Gerard  Baxter  now,  that  he  never  came  to 
Berkeley  Street,  and  that  he  was  afraid  he  had  got 
into  a  very  wild  set,  and  was  going  down-hill  as  fast 
as  he  could." 

Olive  is  preceding  me  up  the  steep  path,  and  has 
enough  to  do  to  maintain  her  footing,  without  turn- 
ing her  head  to  look  at  me.  I  am  glad  of  it.  If 
she  had  looked  at  me,  she  must  have  noticed  the 
exceeding  whiteness  of  my  face. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,  you  know,"  she  went  on — 
Olive  likes  to  liear  herself  talk.  ''  He  is  so  young, 
and  so  remarkably  good  looking  !  Katie  Rolleston 
told  me — you  know  she  came  down  to  Brighton  the 
day  before  I  left — that  he  passed  her  in  Eegent 
Street  the  other  day,  and  it  quite  made  her  heart 
ache  to  see  how  shabby  he  was.  She  said  she  would 
have  spoken  to  him,  even  in  such  a  seedy  coat ;  but 
he  passed  by  without  looking  at  her.  I  suppose  he 
knew  he  was  rather  a  disreputable-looking  figure  ta 
be  seen  speaking  to  any  lady  in  the  street." 

**  Is  he  still  lodging  in  Carleton  Street  ?  " 

**  I  do  not  know.     Jack  knows  very  little  about 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  7I 

him.  He  says  he  doesn't  like  to  seem  as  if  he  were 
prying  into  his  affairs,  and  he  is  such  a  proud  fellow. 
Jack  says  it  would  be  as  much  as  his  life  is  worth 
to  offer  him  a  good  luncheon  at  a  restaurant,  and 
that  he  would  be  sure  to  guess  it  was  because  he 
looked  half  starved." 

"  Does  he  look  like  that  ?"  1  ask,  infinitely  dis- 
tressed. 

"Well,  he  looks  very  thin,"-01ive  says,  laughing 
a  little.  "  I  say,  Allie,  they  are  putting  up  tri- 
umphal arches  here  ;  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

"I  heard  they  intended  doing  it.  We  will  come 
round  by  the  garden,  Olive.  I  don't  want  them  to 
surround  us  like  a  swarm  of  bees." 

Turning  from  the  glimpse  of  the  lawn  and  car- 
riage drive,  seen  between  the  stems  of  the  walnut- 
trees,  I  open  a  little  gafee  leading  into  a  long  straight 
walk  walled  by  tall,  green,  fragrant  hedges  of  box 
and  yew. 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  let  them  see  you,  Allie  ?" 

**Not  to-day,  if  I  can  help  it.  I  shall  have 
enough  and  too  much  of  that  to-morrow." 

''  My  dear,  you  talk  as  if  coming  of  age  were  a 
grievance  ! " 

"  It  is  a  nuisance  to  me,  Olive." 

*'  You  will  tell  me  that  Wood  hay  is  a  nuisance  to 
you  next ! " 

"Oh,  no;  I  should  not  care  to  give  up  Wood- 
hay  ! " 

"  I  should  think  not ! "  Olive  laughs,  as  we 
pass  from  the  cool  secluded  green  walk,  through  a 
tall  archway  cut  in  the  hedge,  and  find  ourselves  in 
a  blaze  of  sunshine  and  scarlet  geranium,  and  brown 
velvet  calceolaria,  and  blue  lobelia,  and  a  hundred 
other  radiant  blossoms. 

"  Allie,  when  are  you  cc  ming  to  live  here  at  Wood- 


72  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  ■ 

■"To  live  here  ?"  I  repeat  absently,  my  eyes  on 
the  gilded  weather-vane  which  twinkles  like  a  star 
©n  the  point  of  my  quaint  red-brick  gable. 

"  You  have  done  nothing  but  echo  me  since  we 
left  the  vicarage.  When  are  you  going  to  take  up 
your  abode  here  in  your  own  manor  of  Woodhay  ? 

**  I  don't  know.  Not  till  Uncle  Tod  is  too  old  to 
do  duty,  probably.  He  will  never  leave  the  vicarage 
till  then." 

"  But  can't  you  live  here  without  your  Uncle 
Tod  ?  " 

"By  myself,  Olive?" 

"  You  could  get  lots  of  nice  elderly  ladies  to  come 
and  live  with  you." 

"  I  think  one  would  be  enough  !  "  I  say,  shrug- 
ging my  shoulders. 

"  Of  course  I  mean  one — at  a  time.  Why  wouldn't 
your  Aunt  Rosa  come  and  live  with  you  hero  ?  " 

"Aunt  Rosa  would  not  leave  Uncle  Tod." 

"  Your  uncle  could  get  the  Reverend  Hyacinth 
Lockhart  to  come  and  take  up  his  abode  at  the 
ficarage." 

"I  don't  think  he  could.  The  Reverend  Hya- 
cinth has  set  up  for  himself  in  the  village — you 
know  the  pretty  cottage  near  the  church,  just  out- 
side the  vicarage  gate  ?  " 

"Going  to  marry  somebody?"  Olive  inquires, 
with  great  interest. 

"Very  probably,  though  I  have  not  heard  any- 
thing about  it — as  yet." 

"  I  hope  he  is  not  going  to  marry  anybody,"  Olive 
says  pathetically.  "  I  should  not  have  half  as  much 
fun  when  I  come  down  here  if  there  was  a  Mrs. 
Hyacinth  Lockhart." 

"  Then  why  did  you  refuse  him  last  summer,  my 
dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  quite  prepared  to  marry  him,  you 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVfi.  ^3 

know  !  But  I  don't  want  liim  to  marry  anybody- 
else." 

"  You  little  dog  in  the  manger  !  Come  in  and 
have  some  strawberries,  Olive.  I  told  off  Digges  we 
Bhould  want  any  amount  of  strawberries  and 
cream." 

The  old  white-haired  butler,  who  has  lived  at 
Woodhay  as  long  as  I  can  remember — and  a  great 
deal  longer — meets  us  in  the  hall. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Digges.  Where  are  the  straw- 
berries and  cream  ?  " 

"  In  here,  madam,"  Digges  says,  throwing  open 
the  door  of  the  dining-room. 

It  is  a  long  low  room,  with  carved  rafters  and  a 
high  black  oak  wainscot,  which  gives  it  rather  a  som- 
ber look.  But  the  glorious  June  sunshine  streams 
in  through  the  stained  glass  of  the  old-fashioned 
bay-windows,  and  falls  in  blue  and  purple  and  ruby 
rays  on  the  polished  jyarqueterie  of  the  floor,  on  the 
heavy  quaint  furniture  and  on  the  grim  faces  of  my 
ancestors  and  ancestresses  hanging  round  the  upper 
part  of  the  wall  in  their  tarnished  frames. 

"  I  wonder  all  these  stately  forefathers  of  yours 
,  did  not  awe  you  into  more  discretion,  Allie,"  Olive 
observes, 'nodding  her  saucy  blonde  head  at  the 
family  portraits.  "  If  I  had  all  those  prim  beruffed 
and  bedoubleted  ladies  and  gentlemen  looking  down 
at  me  all  my  life  with  such  '  aAvful  speculation '  in 
their  painted  eyes,  I  think  I  would  be  a  great  deal 
more  stiff  and  stuck-up  and  dignified  than  you  are." 

"I  never  look  at  them,"  I  confess  candidly,  lean- 
ing back  in  my  chair,  and  looking  at  them  now  how- 
ever. ''We  are  a  plain  family,  Olive — there's  not 
a  doubt  about  it !  Hideously  ugly  I  call  those  men 
and  women  ! " 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  plain, 
Allie  ?  " — ^looking  at  me  over  her  shoulder. 


74  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

"  Fm  no  beauty,  my  dear.  Look  at  the  extraor- 
dinary effect  of  that  blue  light  from  the  window  on 
my  great  great  grandmother's  face  !  Doesn't  it 
look  exactly  as  if  somebody  had  given  her  a  black 
eye?" 

*'  My  dear  Allie,  if  Digges  could  hear  you  !  " 

*'  I'm  not  going  to  let  Digges  hear  me,  besides, 
he's  as  deaf  as  Aunt  Eosa." 

**  Is  not  that  the  lady  whose  eyes  have  made  their 
appearance  again  in  you,  Allie,  after  lying  dormant 
in  the  family  for  a  hundred  years  or  so  ?  " 

''  I  believe  so.  And  I  have  heard  that  she  was 
the  most  pig-headed  woman  of  the  age  in  which  she 
lived." 

"■  Her  eyes  are  exactly  the  color  of  yours,  Allie — 
the  same  shade  of  blue  gray,  like  an  autumn  fog." 

*'  It  does  not  sound  well,"  I  laugh,  shrugging  my 
shoulders.  "  Foggy  eyes  don't  give  one  the  idea  of 
anything  very  alluring.  Olive,  you  don't  mean  to 
say  you  can't  eat  any  more  strawberries  ?  " 

"  I  am  reduced  to  that  deplorable  plight,  my 
dear." 

Looking  at  the  table,  with  its  delicate  appoint- 
ments of  glass  and  silver,  its  dainty  flowers,  the  cake 
and  cream  and  piled-up  dishes  of  strawberries,  my 
heart  aches,  thinking  of  my  boy.  He  may  be  hun- 
gry, while  there  is  food  and  to  spare  in  my  house, 
while  my  very  servants  feed  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 
The  thought  sends  that  old  dull  aching  pain  through 
my  heart  again. 

*'  I  shall  go  down  and  see  what  they  have  done  to 
the  room  they  are  to  dance  in,"  Olive  says,  getting 
up  from  the  tabic.  "  I  hear  the  decorations  there 
are  to  be  something  splendid — all  scarlet  geraniums, 
festooned  about  the  mottoes  and  flags." 

"Sol  hear." 

**  Allie,  I  should  like  exceedingly  to  shake  you  1*' 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  75 

*'  Before  all  my  respectable  ancestors,  Olive  ?  " 

''  Before  them  all.  Oh,  AUie,  I  forgot  to  remind 
you  of  that  note  to  the  confectioner  !  We  left  it 
lying  on  the  study  mantelpiece." 

**  It  will  be  late  for  post  then,  unless  I  run  back 
now  and  ask  Uncle  Tod  to  take  charge  of  it." 

''  Shall  I  go  ?  "     Olive  asks  readily. 

"  Certainly  not.  If  any  one  must  go,  I  will  go 
myself." 

'*  But  can't  you  send  somebody  over  for  it  ?  " 

"  They  would  not  find  it  probably.  I  have  noth- 
ing particular  to  do  just  at  present ;  so,  if  you  like 
to  run  down  and  see  what  they  are  doing  in  the  serv- 
ants' hall,  I'll  go  back  to  the  vicarage  and  give  my 
note  to  Uncle  Tod." 

Olive  agrees  to  this  arrangement ;  and,  five  min- 
utes later,  I  am  in  my  wood  again,  passing  under  its 
mazy  network  of  sun  and  shadow,  drinking  in  the 
delicious  woodland  air. 

I  walk  very  slowly,  the  little  noisy  brown  river 
below  me  on  my  right  hand,  on  my  left  the  over- 
hanging rocks  with  their  June  vesture  of  moss  and 
ferns  and  trailing  festoons  of  bindweed  and  honey- 
suckle ;  and,  while  I  walk,  I  am  thinking  of  Gerard 
Baxter  and  of  the  dream  that  I  have  been  dreaming 
for  the  last  three  months.  Has  he  forgotten  me  ? 
This  is  the  question  which  troubles  me  most.  If  he 
had  forgotten  me,  would  he  not  have  found  means 
to  tell  me  so  ?  Had  he  not  jiromised  to  tell  me,  in 
the  gloomy  old  drawing-room  in  Carleton  Street- 
were  they  not  the  very  last  words  he  had  said  to  me 
before  he  said  good-by  ?  He  has  not  forgotten  me, 
for,  if  he  had,  he  would  have  told  me — so  I  re- 
peat to  myself  forlornly  ;  and,  while  the  thought  is 
m  my  heart,  I  raise  my  eyes  and  see  him  standing 
before  me,  thin  and  gaunt  and  shabby,  in  the  soft 
sunlight  q,Tid  shadow  of  my  woodland  path. 


76  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  Gerard  ! "  I  cry  ;  and  yet  the  reality  of  hie 
presence  scarcely  startles  me,  so  present  had  he 
been  to  my  thoughts. 

He  answers  nothing,  not  a  single  word,  only 
stands  tliere,  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  gliost. 
But  it  is  he  who  looks  like  the  ghost  of  his  former 
self. 

"  Gerard,  where  have  you  come  from  ?  What  are 
you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  from  London,"  he  answers,  with- 
out any  gladness  in  his  face — "  from  London,  to  see 

Something  in  his  manner  chills  me,  and  sends  the 
warm  blood  surging  back  to  my  heart. 

"  You  have  come  to  tell  me  that  you  have  for- 
gotten me  ?" 

"  No,"  ho  replies,  a  dusky  red  coming  into  his 
haggard  cheeks,  "I  shall  never  come  to  tell  you 
that." 

I  am  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief.  I  had 
scarcely  doubted  him,  and  yet  his  manner  had 
seemed  like  the  grasp  of  an  iron  hand  about  my 
heart.  But,  if  he  has  not  forgotten  me,  it  matters 
very  little  about  anything  else. 

*'  You  promised  to  let  me  know,"  I  say,  standing 
before  him  in  the  dancing  sunlight  and  shadow, 
looking  with  wistful  eyes  into  his  altered  face. 

'*  I  have  not  forgotten  you,"  he  repeats,  almost 
savagely,  a  fierce  light  in  his  eyes.  **  I  wish  I 
had!" 

*'  You  wish  you  had,  Gerard  ! " 

*'  I  do,  before  Heaven  !  " 

**  But  I  care  for  nothing,  so  long  as  you  have  not 
forgotten  me.  After  all,  wliat  does  anything  mat- 
ter, if  wo  love  each  other  ?  " 

"  If  we  love  each  other  ? "  he  repeats  vaguely, 
his  hungry,  hollow  eyes  devouring  my  face. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  TJ 

"  If  you  love  me,  Gerard,  I  can  forgive  everything 
else.-" 

'*  I  tried  hard,"  he  says  brokenly,  turning  his  face 
away — "  I  tried  hard  to  be  worthy  of  you,  Allie." 

"  I  know  you  did,"  I  answer  tenderly.  *'  I  know 
all  about  it,  Gerard — I  have  heard." 

"  But  it  was  not  in  me.  It  was  a  bad  day  for 
you  when  you  cared  for  me — ^if  3-ou  ever  did  care." 

"  1  did  ca»e,"  I  respond  gravely,  holding  my 
head  as  high  as  his  is  low.  '*!  did  care  for  you, 
and  I  care  for  you  still  ! " 

*'  I  hope  not  !  "  he  exclaims  quickly  and  passion- 
ately, stretching  out  his  hands  as  if  to  keep  my 
words  away.  "  1  am  not  worthy  of  you — you  must 
not  waste  another  thought  on  such  a  miserable,  de- 
graded wretch  as  I  am." 

*'  But  if  I  love  you,  Gerard  ?  " 

*'  But  you  do  not  know  how  low  I  have  fallen, 
child." 

"  Not  so  low  but  that  I  can  reach  to  lift  you  up, 
with  Heaven's  help,"  I  say,  in  the  same  grave,  tender, 
quiet  way,  "  Do  not  thrust  me  away,  Gerard.  I 
should  not  be  a  woman  if  I  turned  from  you  be- 
cause you  were  unfortunate — if  you  had  been  for- 
tunate I  might  not  have  cared  for  you  half  as 
much." 

"  You  are  an  angel  !"  he  returns  brokenly  ;  but 
his  head  is  turned  away  from  me.  He  makes  no 
movement  to  cross  the  yard  or  two  of  mossy  path, 
the  glint  of  sunshine  and  flicker  of  dancing  shadow, 
which  divides  us  from  each  other. 

*'  You  have  suffered  since  I  saw  you  last,"  I  say, 
with  a  pitiful  glance  at  his  gaunt,  hollow  cheeks 
and  faded  eyes. 

"  Suffered  ! "  he  echoes,  with  an  indescribable 
intonation.  *'Allie,  if  you  cared  for  me — as  you 
Bay  you  did — why  didn'   you  marry  me  ? '' 


78  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

**  And  add  a  new  burden  to  what  was  heavy 
enough  already,  Gerard  ?  " 

"  Were  you  afraid  of  poverty  ?  What  matter  if 
we  had  starved  together  f  But  we  should  not  have 
starved — you  would  have  given  me  courage  to  suc- 
ceed. Ani,  if  we  had  starved  one  day,  we  should 
have  feasted  the  next — we  should  have  been  like 
two  children — we  should  have  cried  and  laughed 
together  !  We  should  have  been  happy,  Allie,  be- 
cause we  should  have  loved  each  other ;  but  we 
liave  missed  it — lost  it  forever  ! " 

He  speaks  rapidly — fiercely,  but  quite  coherently. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  his  coherence  I  should  have 
thought  that  he  was  mad,  or  had  been  drinking  too 
much  wine.  But  I  do  not  like  his  look,  or  the 
desperate  light  in  his  eyes. 

**  I  was  cruel,"  I  say,  stretching  out  my  hand  to 
him.  "  There  are  plenty  of  people  who  would  say 
that  I  had  acted  wisely  ;  but  I  know  in  my  heart 
that  I  did  not.  I  ought  to  have  married  you,  ot 
forbidden  you  to  think  of  me  at  all.'' 

He  looks  at  me  with  those  haggard,  hungry  eyes — 
looks  at  my  face,  my  dress,  but  he  makes  no  move- 
ment to  take  my  outstretched  hand.  ''  You  look 
like  a  picture,  Allie.  I  wish  I  could  paint  you  in 
that  white  gown,  with  all  those  tangled  leaves  for 
background,  your  head  thrown  out  so  delicately 
against  that  patch  of  pale  blue  sky.  You  look  so 
fair  and  sweet  and  good.  What  right  had  I  to  drag 
you  down  to  share  a  life  of  struggle  and  poverty 
with  me  ?  " 

*'If  I  loved  you,  I  ought  to  have  been  glad  to 
share  it.  I  ought  not  to  have  left  you  alone  to 
battle  with  poverty  and  temptation.  That  was  the 
cruel,  selfish  mistake  I  made — that  is  what  makes 
me  blame  myself  now  a  thousand  times  more  than  I 
blame  you." 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  79 

He  does  not  know  how  I  might  have  raised  him 
np — how  higli  above  all  want  I  might  have  placed 
him — how  little  we  might  have  struggled  with  the 
world  which  has  treated  him  so  badly. 

"  And  yet,  if  I  loved  you  as  I  ought,"  he  says 
wistfully,  "I  ought  to  be  glad  to  see  you  here — 
happy  among  all  bright  and  lovely  things.  I 
wonder,''  he  adds,  with  a  short  cold  laugh,  "  that 
you  even  condescend  to  speak  to  a  poor  shabby  out- 
at-elbows  wretch  like  me  ?" 

"  Do  you  wonder  ? "  I  answer  a  little  coldly. 
**  You  seem  to  have  but  a  poor  oj)inion  of  me,  Mr. 
Baxter." 

"  I  was  so  sure  you  had  forgotten  me.  You  had 
seemed  to  care  for  me  so  little  always — it  was  I  who 
had  cared  for  you.  I  said  to  myself  '  She  will 
despise  me — she  will  not  believe  in  me  any  more.' 
And  that  made  me  reckless — I  did  not  care  what 
became  of  me — I  do  not  care  now." 

"  But  I  care." 

*'Do  you  ?"  he  asks  a  little  curiously,  looking 
down  into  my  face. 

"  How  often  must  I  tell  you  I  love  you,  Gerard  ?  " 

*'But  you  must  hate  me,  Allie,  from  this  day 
forward." 

*'  Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  this  ?  " 

"  I  came  here  because  I  felt  that  1  must  see  you 
again.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  nearly  three  months 
since  I  saw  your  face  ?  " 

How  well  I  know  it !  But  I  only  ask  gravely  and 
coldly — 

"  How  did  you  find  me  out  ?" 

"  I  knew  you  lived  here  with  your  uncle,  You 
told  me  he  was  the  clergyman  of  this  place." 

"  Where  are  you  staying  ?     At  Yattenden  ?  " 

'*  At  the  inn  there.  I  came  down  to  make  some 
sketches  in  the  neighborhood,"  he  adds,  smiling — a 


80  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

very  faint  tired  haggard  smile.  "There  are  some 
pretty  bits  about  here — at  Woodhay — so  they  tell 
me.  But  I  suppose  I  could  not  venture  to  carry  my 
paints  and  easel  in  here  without  the  owner's  leave  ?'* 

"  I  can  get  that  for  you  very  easily." 

*'  I  suppose  you  know  the  people  who  live  here  ?" 

*'  I  know  every  one  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  The  sketches  are  not  of  much  moment — it  was 
to  see  you  that  I  came.  I  had  something  to  tell 
you — sometliing  I  must  say  to  you — " 

"  And  I/'  I  interrupt  with  a  happy  thrill  at  my 
heart — "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Gerard. 
But  I  have  a  fancy  for  saying  it  to-morrow — you 
will  know  why  afterward.  If  you  come  here  to- 
morrow, I  will  tell  you  a — secret." 

"  My  news  will  keep  till  to-morrow,"  he  says, 
with  the  kind  of  eagerness  with  which  a  drowning 
man  will  catch  at  a  straw  ;  "  and  it  will  be  some- 
thing to  live  for,  to  think  that  I  shall  see  you 
again." 

"If  you  come  to  Woodhay  to-morrow,  you  will 
see  a  village /e^e," 

*'  I  am  in  no  trim  tor  feies,"  he  answers,  bitterly, 
with  a  glance  at  his  threadbare  sleeve. 

"Oh,  there  will  be  all  kinds  of  people  here  to- 
morrow ! " 

"  Even  beggars  like  me  !  Is  it  a  school  feast,  or 
what?" 

"  The  owner  of  the  place  is  coming  of  age.  Did 
you  not  notice  the  triumphal  arches  they  are  put- 
ting up  all  along  the  road  from  the  village  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  came  across  the  fields  from  the  village. 
My  landlord  told  me  there  was  a  rignt-p^-way,  even 
for  such  tramps  as  I." 

"  I  am  sure  mine  host  of  the  *  ft-cag's  Head  '  did 
not  say  anything  so  uncivil.  What  should  youhava 
done  if  you  had  not  met  me  here  to-day  ?  *" 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  8l 

*'  Loafed  about  the  vicarage  till  I  did  meet  you," 
he  answers,  with  a  gleam  of  the  old  boyish  fun  in 
his  ko.low  eyes. 

His  manner  would  have  saddened  me  if  I  did  not 
know  how  he  will  laugh  at  his  want  of  faith  in  me 
to-morrow. 

"  I  must  go,"  I  say  at  last,  thinking  how  Olive 
will  wonder  what  has  become  of  me  ;  "  but  you  will 
be  sure  to  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  will  come,"  he  promises,  looking  at  me  with 
the  sad  eyes  which  trouble  me.  "I  shall  see  you 
to-morrow,  Allie,  and  after  that — the  Deluge." 

But  that  is  not  the  program  I  arrange  for  my- 
self, as  I  run  up  the  path  through  the  vicarage 
garden,  between  the  cabbages  and  rows  of  currant 
and  gooseberry  bushes. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

''Allie,  you  have  an  amazing  power  of  adap- 
tability." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  to-day  you  look  as  if  you  had  been  acting 
the  Lady  Bountiful  all  your  life." 

*'  Because  a  set  of  old  men  and  women  and  school 
children  don't  make  me  nervous  ?  " 

"But,  when  the  band  struck  up  and  they  began 
to  cheer,  I  declare  it  nearly  made  me  cry  !  And 
you  were  as  cool  as  a  block  of  Wenham  Lake  ice — 
you  never  even  changed  color,  while  I  was  trembling 
like  a  leaf." 

"  Every  one  is  not  such  a  goose  as  you  are, 
Olive." 

Uncle  Tod  has  just  returned  thanks,  in  my  name, 
6 


82  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

for  the  congratulatory  speech  which  Mr.  Prout,  the 
eteward,  his  delivered,  and  the  welcome  and  good 
wishes  for  my  future  happiness  which  he  has  ex- 
pressed on  behalf  of  himself  and  of  my  tenantry, 
who  have  emphasized  each  carefully-prepared  com- 
pliment and  labored  pleasantry  with  rather  indis- 
criminating  cheers  and  laughter.  But,  if  they  are 
amused,  I  am  satisfied,  and  only  anxious  to  get  it 
all  over  as  quickly  as  I  can. 

I  am  standing  with  Uncle  Tod  on  the  low  balcony 
or  terrace  before  the  hall-door,  at  the  top  of  the 
wide  shallow  flight  of  stone  steps  leading  down  to 
the  drive.  A  croAvd  of  well-dressed  people  stand 
behind  us,  Olive  nearest  to  me.  Aunt  Rosa  is  iu 
the  open  drawing-room  window  with  a  whole  party 
of  elderly  ladies  ;  there  are  faces  at  every  window 
of  the  picturesque  old  red-brick  house.  But  they 
are  nothing  to  the  sea  of  faces  in  front  of  us ;  the 
whole  village — and  not  only  the  village,  but  the 
country-side — seems  to  have  turned  out  to  welcome 
my  father's  child  to  the  house  from  which  they  had 
seen  his  coffin  carried — those  of  them  who  were  old 
enough  to  remember — followed  by  the  tears  and 
lamentations  of  a  tenantry  which  idolized  him  as, 
I  am  afraid,  they  will  never  idolize  me. 

I  stand  quite  quietly  at  Uncle  Tod's  elbow,  look- 
ing down  at  the  crowd,  while  the  dear  old  man, 
bareheaded,  his  silver  locks  glistening  in  the  June 
sunshine,  says  his  few  pleasant  fatherly  words  to  the 
people,  and  receives  a  hearty  cheer  or  two,  at  which 
he  smiles,  glancing  at  me.  Then  the  crowd  scatter 
away  to  the  varioiis  amusements  prepared  for  them, 
which  are  to  occupy  the  time  before  the  great  dinner 
in  the  marquees  on  the  lawn. 

*'  Come  and  see  the  children  dance  ! "  Olive  says  ; 
and  she  and  I  and  half  a  dozen  others — Gus  Deans 
*nd  young  Algy  Duflerin  and  Mr.  Lockhart  among 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVB.  83 

them — make  our  way  to  the  old  croquet-ground, 
where  the  children,  rich  and  poor,  are  dancing 
merrily  to  the  music  of  the  village  brass-band. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?"  Gus  Deane  asks, 
standing  beside  me. 

*'  Looking  for  ?  " 

"  You  seem  to  be  searching  in  the  crowd  for 
some  one  or  something." 

"  Oh,  I  expected  a  friend  here  to-day  ! "  I  an- 
swered carelessly.  "  I  dare  say  he  is  here — some- 
where in  the  crowd." 

"  Will  he  not  come  up  and  speak  to  you  ?  "  Gus 
questions,  surprised. 

"  Of  course — by  and  by." 

I  stand  up,  very  tall  and  straight,  in  the  clear 
space  that  is  left  for  me  wherever  I  move  to-day. 
The  sunshine  gilds  my  birthday  gloriously — all  the 
woods  are  bathed  in  it ;  it  dreams  on  the  smooth 
lawns  ;  it  lights  up  the  green  triumphal  arches  and 
the  red  and  white  flags  fluttering  in  long  festoons 
against  the  cloudless  blue  of  the  sky.  Olive  thinks 
me  very  cool  and  quiet  ;  but  she  does  not  know 
how  my  heart  is  beating  under  my  cream-colored 
bodice  slashed  with  soft  sky-blue — not  beating  be- 
cause I  am  the  center  of  attraction  here  to-day,  not 
beating  at  the  sound  of  the  music  or  the  cheering, 
but  because  I  am  watching  for  an  opportunity  to 
steal  away  to  meet  my  lover  in  the  greenwood — my 
lover  who  is  waiting  there  for  me. 

I  love  him,  poor  and  shabby  and  haggard  and  un- 
fortunate— I  love  him  as  perhaps  I  should  never 
have  loved  him  if  he  had  been  well-dressed  and  rich 
and  prosperous — as  I  could  never  have  loved  any 
of  the  rich  and  prosperous  young  men  who  are 
crowding  about  me  to-day.  Some  women  love  best 
what  most  excites  their  pity — what  is  most  depen- 
dent upon  them  for  comfort  and  care  and  help.    I 


^4  J'OR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

love  this  boy  because  I  am  everything  to  him — ^be- 
cause, unless  I  stoop  to  save  him,  he  is  lost.  I  long 
to  take  him  by  the  hand,  to  say  to  him,  **  All 
mine  is  thine."  He  shall  suffer  no  more  poverty, 
poor  lad  ;  he  shall  not  fight  hand  to  hand  with  want 
and  disappointment  and  discouragement  any  more  ! 
I  will  help  him  to  be  famous  ;  he  need  not  sell  his 
beautiful  pictures  for  half  their  value  because  he 
must  have  bread  to  eat.  So  I  think  triumphantly, 
as  I  stand  looking  at  the  children  dancing  on  the 
greensward,  and  wondering  impatiently  when  I 
shall  be  able  to  shake  off  Gus  Deane  and  escape  to 
my  woodland  tryst. 

Has  Gerard  any  idea  yet  that  I  am  the  heroine 
of  the  day,  I  wonder — that  these  village  festivities 
have  all  been  organized  in  honor  of  me  ?  I  hope 
he  has  no  suspicion  of  it ;  1  want  to  be  the  first  to 
tell  him — myself.  He  will  wonder  at  my  dress 
when,  he  sees  me — long  gowns  of  delicate  cream 
color,  slashed  with  blue  satin,  great  Euben  bats 
lined  with  the  same  skyey  hue  and  plumed  with 
soft  ostrich  leathers,  do  not '  come  out  of  quiet 
country  vicarages — even  a  man  would  know  as  much 
as  that !  But  he  will  think  I  am  looking  well. 
Olive  has  told  me  that  she  never  saw  me  looking  so 
well  before  as  I  am  looking  to-day. 

I  slip  away  from  them  all  at  last,  into  the  garden, 
down  the  long,  cool,  aromatic  alley  of  box  and  yew, 
into  the  gold  and  emerald  mazes  of  the  wood.  The 
path  is  very  steep  ;  but  I  hurry  down  it — down  into 
the  cool  depths  of  my  shadowy  combe.  He  is 
there  waiting  for  me,  leaning  over  a  bit  of  ivied 
wall,  looking  down  into  the  river — the  noisy  rush- 
ing river,  which  drowns  the  distant  music  and  the 
hum  of  the  crowd. 

"  Gerard,"  I  cry  joyfully — "  Gerard  I " 

He  turns  at  the  sound  of  my  voice. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  8$ 

'*  Why  didn't  you  come  and  see  us  making  merry 
up  at  the  house  r  " 

"  I  did  not  care  to  go  ;  I  have  no  heart  for  merry- 
making," he  says  a  little  sullenly,  looking  at  me. 
*'They  were  making  such  a  noise,  shouting  and 
dancing.  And  you — I  suppose  you  were  in  the  mid- 
dle of  it  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,''  I  answered,  smiling  a  little — "  in  the 
very  middle  ! " 

"■  You  look  like  it.  "Why  are  you  dressed  out  like 
that  ?  " 

**  Everybody  puts  on  gala  attire  for  such  a  day 
as  this." 

*'  Then  it  was  well  I  did  not  venture  in  among 
you  in  my  rags  !  " 

"  Gerard,"  I  say,  taking  him  by  the  hand  quickly, 
*'  come  with  me  ;  I  want  to  tell  you  something- 
something  that  will  make  you  glad." 

''  Nothing  could  make  me  glad,"  he  returns, 
shaking  off  my  hand  as  if  it  stung  him,  "  except  to 
know  that  this  would  be  the  last  day  I  had  to  live." 

"  Gerard,  all  this  place  is  mine  ;  it  is  for  me  they 
are  making  all  this  noise  which  vexes  you  !  Wood- 
hay  is  mine,  and  I — I  am  yours,  if  you  will  have 
me!" 

He  stares  at  me  in  bewilderment. 

*'  Woodhay  is  mine,  Gerard — do  you  hear  ?" 

*'  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?"  he  asks  slowly,  a 
great  red  flush  rising  to  his  face,  up  to  his  very 
forehead. 

"  Because  I  thought  you  knew,  at  first ;  and  then, 
because  I  wanted  to  try  you — whether  you  loved  me 
for  myself  alone." 

''  And  I  dared  to  ask  you  to  marry  me  ?  "  he  says, 
staring  at  me  in  the  same  bewildered  way.  "  I  am 
not  surprised  that  you  refused  me,  Allie  " — with  a 
short  cold  laugh.     *'  J  am  not  surprised  that  you 


86  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

declined  my  magnanimous  offer  that  night  in  Berke* 
ley  Street !  Heavens,  how  you  must  have  laughed 
at  me  ! " — and  he  turns  away  in  a  sudden  passion  of 
anger  and  resei^tment. 

"I  did  not  laugh  at  you,  Gerard.  Oh,  Gerard, 
you  are  treating  me  very  badly — ** 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  says,  but  without  looking  at 
me — "don't  cry,  or  you  will  drive  me  mad/' 

"  You  will  drive  me  mad  !  What  have  I  done 
that  you  should  be  so  hard  to  me — so  cruel — '' 

"  You  have  done  nothing.  It  is  I  who  have 
ruined  myself." 

"  But  you  are  not  ruined.  We  shall  be  happy 
yet ;  I  am  very  rich,  I  have  great  wealth,  Gerard, 
more  than  you  think.  And  it  is  all  yours  ;  I  only 
value  it  now  because  I  can  give  it  to  you." 

"  Hush  !  "  he  exclaims,  a  look  of  passionate  shame 
and  anguish  passing  over  his  face.  "  Don't  talk  like 
that,  child  ;  you  can  do  nothing  for  me ;  it  is  too 
late,  I  have  done  for  myself." 

**  It  is  not  too  late.  No  matter  what  you  have 
done,  I  love  you,  Gerard,  and  I  will  marry  you  to- 
morrow, if  you  like." 

"  Listen  to  me  !  "  he  says,  taking  me  by  the  wrist 
with  a  grasp  which  absolutely  bruises  my  flesh. 
*'  Listen  to  me  for  a  minute.  You  know  that  I 
come  here  to  tell  you  something,  Allie — something 
which  it  hurts  me  more  to  tell  than  it  will  hurt  you 
to  hear." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  I  ask,  frightened  by  the  strange, 
lurid  glow  which  lights  up  tlie  blackness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Something  which  will  make  you  hate  me." 

"  You  hurt  my  wrist,"  I  say,  piteously. 

*'  Poor  little  arm  ! "  he  exclaims,  and,  stooping 
suddenly,  he  kisses  it.  "  Allie,  isn't  it  hard  that  I, 
who  would  lie  down  and  die  for  you  this  minute^  if 
I  could,  must  hurt  you  ?  " 


FOR  LIFE  ANt)  LOVfi.  §7 

**  You  have  not  hurt  me  much,"  I  answer,  smiling 
through  some  childish  tears. 

"  But  I  must  hurt  you.  Allie,  walk  up  and  down 
here  with  me  for  a  few  minutes,  while  I  tell  you  my 
story — just  here — I  shall  not  detain  you  very  long.'* 

We  walk  up  and  down,  through  the  sunshine  and 
the  shadow,  the  rushing  of  the  river  in  our  ears.  As 
long  as  I  live  I  shall  remember  these  minutes — not 
more  than  ten  are  they,  though  they  seem  a  century 
of  pain  and  sorrow  to  us  both. 

"  And  so  I  grew  reckless,  Allie.  I  did  not  care 
what  became  of  me.  The  picture  that  was  to  have 
made  my  fortune  went  for  half  its  value,  and  I — I 
tried  to  find  oblivion  where  the  wretched  look  for  it 
so  often — tried,  and  lost  what  little  self-respect  re- 
mained to  me,  and  with  it  all  hope  of  ever  winning 
you." 

"  If  you  had  had  patience — " 

*'  But  I  had  no  patience.  And  it  was  so  easy  to 
go  down-hill,  so  much  easier  than  climbing  up  ! 
A  fortnight  after  my  picture  went,  I  was  starving 
in  an  attic  in  London,  ashamed  to  show  my  face  in 
Carleton  Street,  as  I  have  been  ashamed  to  show  it 
ever  since." 

The  green  leaves  flicker,  the  river  brawls  among 
its  mossy  boulders ;  now  and  then  a  swell  of  music 
comes  to  us  on  the  soft  breathings  of  the  June  air. 
I  do  not  speak — I  let  him  tell  his  story  in  his  own 
way — and  then,  when  he  has  fiuislied,  I  will  tell  him 
mine. 

"I  lodged  with  a  woman  named  White — a 
wretched,  quarrelsome  woman,  tl^.e  widow  of  a  color- 
sergeant.  She  said  her  husband  had  been  a  gentle- 
man— a  wild  medical  stndent  wlio  had  got  into  debt, 
and  enlisted.  I  lived  in  her  liouse,  boarding  with 
her.  I  owed  her  money.  She  let  her  bill  run  on — 
if  she  had  not,  I  must  have  starved,  or  put  an  en<i 


88  ]^0R  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

to  myself.  I  wa<3  too  shabby  to — to  think  of  trying 
for  any  decent  employment.  I  had  sold  everything 
for  which  I  could  get  money — even  the  locket  with 
my  mother's  hair.  The  woman  had  a  daughter — a 
girl  whom  I  had  often  admired  for  her  pretty  face — 
and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  fall  in  love  with 
me." 

He  pauses,  with  a  smile  of  angry  scorn  and  humi- 
liation.    I  say  nothing — not  a  single  word. 

**  The  mother  knew  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  env 
couraged  it.  I  was  fascinated — bewitched  by  the 
child's  beauty.  I  was  reckless — I  did  not  care  what 
became  of  me.  And  she  was  fond  of  me — I  will  do 
her  the  justice  to  say  that  she  was  fond  of  me,  mis- 
erable beggar  that  1  was.'' 

**  And  you  loved  her  ! "  I  say  quite  quietly,  though 
my  heart  is  beating  low  in  its  passionate  pain. 

The  moment  he  mentioned  the  woman's  name — 
White — I  remembered  the  girl  I  had  seen  in  London 
— the  young  girl  with  tangled  red-gold  hair,  with 
an  exquisite  innocent  face,  with  blue  velvety  eyes 
that  looked  dark  as  night  under  their  black  lashes 
— a  face  whose  exceeding  beauty  I  had  envied,  not 
dreaming  of  what  it  was  to  be  to  me. 

"No,"  he  answers  quietly  enough,  "I  did  not 
love  her,  Allie — I  sliall  never  love  any  woman  but 
you.     But  I  married  her.'* 

"  Gerard,  will  you  let  me  help  you — in  the  only 
way  I  can  ?  " 

We  are  standing,  looking  at  each  other  with  white 
altered  faces,  set  and  stern.  It  is  all  over  Aow — the 
miserable  story  is  ended — I  know  the  worst.  And, 
if  the  telling  of  it  has  brought  an  anguish  which  is 
almost  intolerable  to  me,  it  seems  to  have  carried  a 
certain  relief  with  it  to  him — a  sense  of  having  dared 
and  endured  the  worst. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  89 

"  You  offer  me  charity  ? "  he  says  ;  but  he  says 
it  humbly.  I  may  hurt  him  now  ;  he  will  not  re- 
taliate, having  hurt  me  so  much  already. 

"I  offer  you  of  my  abundance,"  I  answer,  think- 
ing how  little  pleasure  or  profit  my  abundance  will 
be  to  me  henceforward.  ' '  I  ask  you,  as  a  favor  to 
me,  to  let  me  lend  you  what  is  lying  useless  to  me 
— if  you  will  be  so  good." 

I  use  the  word  "lend  "  advisedly,  as  more  palata- 
ble to  his  pride  than  the  word  "give."  He  looks  at 
me,  shame  and  sorrow  and  regret  struggling  in  his 
face. 

"  Allie,"  he  exclaims  passionately,  "is  it — can  it 
really  be  true  that  you  care  for  an  unfortunate,  good- 
for-nothing,  unlucky  wretch  like  me  ?  " 

It  is  my  turn  to  draw  back  now — miserably  indig- 
nant. 

"  You  dare  to  say  this  to  me,  Gerard  Baxter — to 
me^" 

**But  half  an  hour  ago — five  minutes  ago,  you 
told  me  that  you  loved  me,"  the  boy  says,  a  light  of 
passionate  triumph  in  his  haggard  eyes.  "  Even  a 
woman  cannot  love  one  minute  and  hate  the  next  !  " 

"No,"  I  answer  quietly;  "I  do  not  think  they 
can." 

He  looks  down  into  my  eyes— looks  and  turns  his 
head  away. 

"  To  think  that  I  have  lost  you,  Allie — you  whom 
I  love  better  than  all  the  world  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  I  exclaim  almost  vindictively.  "  Think 
of  the  wretched  child  you  have  married  !  Do  not 
make  me  despise  you — and  myself  ! " 

"  Despise  me  !  "  he  echoes  with  the  quick,  hard 
laugh  which  is  worse  than  a  sob.  "  I  wonder  what 
else  you  can  do  ?  " 

"  I  pity  you  ;  and  if  you  will  let  me  help  you— as 
if  you  were  mY  own  brother — X  shall  count  it  a  kind- 


90  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

ness.  And  now  I  must  go  ;  they  will  be  calling  for 
me." 

"To  lead  the  revels,"  he  says  bitterly;  ''while 
I—" 

My  heart  bleeds  for  him,  as  I  look  at  the  strange, 
unyouthful  expression  of  his  face,  at  his  threadbare 
coat.  If  I  had  dared,  I  would  have  offered  him 
money ;  but  I  do  not  dare. 

**  You  have  spoiled  the  revels  for  me,"  I  answer 
bitterly,  in  my  turn  ;  and,  as  he  looks  into  ray  eyes, 
he  seems  to  feel  that  I  speak  the  truth,  for  his  own 
cloud  over. 

"  I  was  not  worthy  of  you,  Allie,"  he  says  brokenly. 
*'Ihave  been  justly  punished,  though  my  punish- 
ment is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

*'  You  are  young,  Gerard — the  world  is  before  you 
yet.  -  You  shall  make  afresh  start.  Want  of  means 
shall  not  drag  you  down  any  more.  You  will  be 
famous,  and  I  shall  be — your  friend." 

He  wrings  my  hand,  holding  his  head  down — the 
dark  head  that  used  to  be  held  so  high. 

"  Do  not  offer  me  money,  Allie ;  I  could  never 
take  money  from  you.  But  I  will  make  a  fresh 
Btart — I  will  work  hard  for  your  sake,  and  some  day 
or  other  we  may  be — friends." 

They  are  his  last  words  to  me. 


*'  We  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Allie  I 
They  want  you  to  give  the  prizes  to  the  boys  who 
have  won  the  races.  Why,  Allie,  have  you  seen  a 
ghost  ?    You  look  as  white  as  a  sheet ! " 

"  She  is  tired,"  Olive  says,  putting  her  arm  round 
me  and  drawing  me  away  from  the  excited  group  on 
the  terrace.  "  Would  you  rather  somebody  else  gave 
away  the  prizes,  dear  ?  Your  Uncle  Tod  could  do 
it  ^ust  as  well," 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  gt 

**  Oh,  I'll  do  it ! "  I  answer  feverishly.  '*  I  want 
something  to  do — I  am  tired." 

Olive  leads  me  into  the  house.  The  excitement 
has  been  too  much  for  me — so  everybody  says.  Olive 
takes  ofE  my  hat  and  puts  me  on  to  the  sofa,  and  I 
lie  there  quite  quietly,  holding  her  hand.  The  fete 
goes  on  merrily.  I  hear  the  music  and  the  danc- 
ing ;  it  seems  to  come  and  go  curiously,  swelling 
and  dying  away. 

"  Shut  it  out  ! "  I  say  wearily.  "  Shut  the  win- 
dow, Olive.  I  am  tired  of  listening  to  that  river, 
and  the  sunshine  dazzles  me.  And  give  me  that 
sheet  of  music — I  know  Madame  Cronhelm  is  wait- 
ing for  me  to  sing." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

How  softly  the  sunshine  dreams  along  the  terrace 
— how  bright  the  flower-garden  looks,  seen  from  tho 
shadowy  room  !  I  have  been  asleep,  I  think  ;  the 
light  slants  more  from  the  west  than  it  did  when 
Olive  left  me  here  to  rest  for  a  little,  while  she  went 
out  with  Mr.  Lockhart  to  play  tennis  after  luncheon. 

The  warm  August  air  comes  in  through  the  open 
window ;  without  turning  my  head,  I  can  feel  it 
breathing  balmily  on  my  cheek.  There  are  two 
windows  to  this  quaint  long  drawing-room  of  mine, 
one  looking  across  the  terrace  in  the  flower-garden, 
the  other  into  the  tennis-courts.  My  sofa  is  near 
the  garden  window,  which  Olive  has  closed.  But 
through  the  small  old-fashioned  panes  in  their  leaden 
setting  I  can  see  my  flowers  blazing  in  the  sunshine, 
my  pet  peacock  perched  on  the  stone  balustrade, 
m^  three  tawny  black-faced  pugs  rolling  over  one 


g2  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVfi. 

another  on  the  smooth  gravel,  the  bosky  tops  of  my 
woodland,  and,  far  away,  a  high  blue  hill,  so  faint 
with  heat  that  it  seems  to  lose  its  outline  in  the 
clouds. 

I  look  at  them  all  dreamily,  with  a  curious  kind 
of  languid  unconcern.  It  is  not  weakness  or  lazi- 
ness— for  my  strength  has  quite  come  back  to  me, 
and  I  never  was  indolent — but  a  strange  feeling  of 
indifference,  which  prompts  me  to  lie  still  on  my 
pillows  and  look  about  me  dreamily  like  a  half- 
awakened  child. 

The  shadows  creep  round,  followed  by  the  sun- 
shine ;  the  peacock  hops  down  and  stalks  away  I 
know  not  whither  ;  my  dogs  have  curled  themselves 
up  and  gone  to  sleep  in  the  sunshine ;  a  bee  comes 
booming  against  the  glass  and  away  again  ;  a  flight 
of  crows  cross  the  sky  in  the  distance  ;  I  hear  Olive's 
voice  counting  her  strokes;  I  know  the  glorious 
August  afternoon  is  wearing  away ;  and  yet  I  do 
not  stir. 

There  has  been  a  hiatus  of  six  weeks  in  my  life ; 
and,  now  that  I  am  gathering  up  the  raveled  threads 
.of  consciousness  again,  it  is  with  a  curious  uncon- 
cern, a  want  of  energy,  which  troubles  Olive  and 
IJncle  Tod.  I  have  been  so  near  death's  door  that 
it  seems  as  if  I  scarcely  cared  to  take  the  trouble  to 
come  back  again — as  if  I  had  somehow-  got  outside 
the  world's  attraction,  and  were  floating  apart  in 
some  dreamy  mid-region  out  of  the  reach  of  their 
sympathies.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
care  for  anything,  to  feel  an  interest  in  anything, 
to  care  to  rouse  myself  out  of  the  stupor  of  languid 
indifference  into  which  I  have  fallen  since  that  six 
weeks'  fever  out  of  which  they  thought  I  would  never 
have  come  alive. 

The  sunlight  moves  on — dies  off  the  terrace — 
glides  to  the  top  of  my  bosky  wood.    The  colors  ot 


)  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  93 

the  flowers  in  the  garden  are  not  so  rich  now  as  the 
coat-of-arms  let  into  the  upper  part  of  the  deep  bay* 
window  in  colored  glass — the  stag's  head  above  the 
shield  with  its  clievron  charged  with  three  _^eMrs-c?e- 
lysy  over  all  the  bloody  hand  to  which  I,  as  a  girl, 
can  have  no  right.  The  person  who  has  a  right  to 
it  is  here,  at  Woodhay.  I  wonder  vaguely  if  he  ever 
thinks  of  me  as  a  usurper  ?  If  I  had  never  been 
born  Woodhay  would  have  belonged  to  him. 

I  study  the  armorial  bearings  with  the  same  vague 
curiosity  with  which  I  have  studied  the  garden — as 
if  it  had  not  been  familiar  to  me  all  my  life.  From 
the  stained  glass  my  eyes  wander  to  the  heavy  cur- 
tains of  crimson  velvet,  to  the  paneled  wall,  to  the 
oil-painting  above  the  paneling — a  chorus  of  ra- 
diantly-beautiful cherub  heads  whose  rosy  cheeks 
are  only  a  shade  less  rosy  than  the  heaven  which 
forms  their  background.  I  am  studying  this  last  as 
if  it  too  were  an  unfamiliar  thing,  when  the  rustle 
of  a  newspaper  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  attracts 
my  attention.  I  move  my  head  languidly,  turning 
down  the  corner  of  the  pilldw  with  my  hand.  Ronald 
Scott  is  sitting  in  the  great  red  velvet  chair  by  the 
window,  reading.  I  have  made  no  sound  in  turning 
my  head  and  he  does  not  look  round.  And  calmly 
and  gravely  I  study  him,  as  I  have  studied  the  other 
objects  in  the  room  and  out  of  it,  with  cold,  unin- 
terested, almost  indifferent  eyes. 

I  know  his  face  very  well.  '  He  Was  at  the  vicarage 
when  I  first  came  down-stairs — had  been  staying 
there  for  more  than  a  fortnight-  He  is  my  cousin  ; 
his  father  and  my  father  were  first  cousins — but  I 
had  never  seen  him  before.  Uncle  Tod  had  met 
him  as  a  lad,  before  he  went  to  India,  and  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  him.  And,  hearing  that  he  had  como 
back  to  England  for  ?•  year's  holiday,  he  had  written 
to  invite  hint  ttoi^n  "*^o  the  vicarage,  promising  hinj 


94  FOR   LIKE  AND  LOVE. 

the  shooting  of  as  many  of  my  grouse  and  woodcock 
— and  I  believe  my  hares  and  pheasants — as  he  chose 
to  demolish.  He  had  not  come  down  till  I  had  begun 
to  mend — the  invitation  had  been  given  before  I  fell 
ill — and  he  does  not  seem  to  find  life  at  Yattenden 
Vicarage  dull,  or  to  have  grown  tired  of  shooting 
over  my  lands,  or  crossing  the  brown  brook  to  pay 
us  a  visit  here  at  Woodhay,  to  which  I  have  come 
for  change  of  air  with  Olive,  Aunt  Kosa  dividing  her 
time  impartially  between  the  two  houses,  but  behig 
nominally  on  a  visit  with  me. 

Studying  his  face  thus  at  my  leisure,  I  try  to 
fancy  what  I  would  think  of  Eonald  Scott  if  I  had 
never  seen  him  before.  It  is  a  plain  face,  thin  and 
brown,  with  a  droopiTig  brown  mustache — a  rather 
stern  face,  as  of  one  who  has  conquered  in  the 
fight.  Uncle  Tod  told  me,  when  he  heard,  of  his 
coming  home  on  leave,  tliat  Eonald  Scott  was  a 
hard-working  fellow,  and  would  soon  be  at  the  top 
of  the  tree.  I  remember  quite  well  hearing  of  his 
going  out  to  India,  with  very  little  interest  and  no 
capital,  nearly  twelve  years  ago,  and  what  a  strug- 
gle it  would  be  to  him  to  get  his  foot  even  on  the 
lowest  rung  of  the  ladder.  Even  then  I  had  won- 
dered if  he  wished  there  were  no  such  person  in  ex- 
istence as  the  little  wild  girl  at  Yattenden  Vicar- 
age. It  seemed  hard  that  he  should  have  inherited 
nothing  but  the  empty  title — sometimes  I  wished 
my  father  had  not  left  Woodhay  to  me,  but  to  him. 
But  Woodhay  was  not  entailed,  and  my  father  cared 
for  no  one  but  me.  Nevertheless,  as  a  child,  I  had 
often  thought  of  my  cousin.  Sir  Eonald  Scott — 
wondered  what  he  was  like — and  even  made  up  my 
mind  to  marry  him  some  day,  and  so  repair  the  in- 
jury I  had  unconsciously  done  him.  Now,  as  I  lie 
among  my  velvet  cushions  soberly  regarding  him,  I 
bethink  me  of  the  resolution  I  have  come  to  lately. 


FOk  LIFE  ANt>  LOVfe.  95 

of  leaving  Woodhay  to  him  when  I  die.  His  yearly 
income  in  India  promises  soon  to  be  equal  to  my 
own  ;  but  that  makes  no  difference.  Woodhay 
ought  to  go  with  the  Scott  title,  as  it  has  gone  for 
the  last  four  or  five  hundred  years.  This  magnani- 
mous arrangement  fills  me  with  no  sorrow  for  my- 
self as  I  lie  among  my  cushions  studying  his  worn 
profile  as  it  appears  against  the  sunny  square  of 
open  window  beyond, 

"You  are  awake,  Rosalie!"  Some  occult  influ- 
ence has  drawn  his  look  toward  me,  or  perhaps  the 
magnetism  of  my  own  steadfast  gaze.  He  throws 
down  the  newspaper  and  comes  across  the  room. 
**  I  hope  you  feel  rested,  cousin  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thanks  !     Have  I  been  long  asleep  ?  " 

*'  I  do  not  know — you  were  asleep  when  I  came 
in  half  an  hour  ago — at  least,  I  suppose  so,  for  you 
were  so  quiet  that  I  never  knew  you  were  in  the 
room  till  Miss  Deane  came  to  the  window  to  warn 
me  in  a  whisper  not  to  wake  you.'' 

"  I  thought  you  were  playing  tennis  ?" 

*'  I  was  playing  ;  but  I  wanted  to  read  that  arti- 
cle about  Indian  affairs  in  to-day's  *  Times.' " 

"  Has  Olive  finished  her  game  yet  ?  " 

"Not  yet,  I  think." 

I  glance  at  the  table  where  Digges  has  just  de* 
posited  our  afternoon  tea-tray. 

"  1  wish  she  would  come  in  and  give  us  some 
tea." 

"Shall  I  go  for  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she  will  come  when  she  is  ready  !  " 

"  You  will  feel  lonely  without  your  friend,"  he 
says,  as  Olive's  merry  laugh  comes  in  through  the 
open  window.  Olive  is  going  away  to-morrow ; 
Ellinor  is  not  strong,  and  wants  her  at  home. 

"Yes,"  I  answer,  tears  coming  into  my  eyes — 1 
must  be  weak  yet,  or  I  should  not  cry  so  readily. 


96  rok  LlFfe  ANi3   LOVfi. 

'*  They  have  written  for  her ;    I  shall  miss  her  rery 
much." 

"  You  are  going  away  yourself  very  soon,  are  you 
not  ?  " 

**They  want  me  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo;  but  I 
don't  care  about  it." 

''  Yet  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  this  place  dull  in 
winter." 

"I  never  found  Woodhay  dull,"  I  answer,  look- 
ing  out  of  the  window.  *''  I  never  lived  here,  to  be 
sure — that  I  can  remember ;  but  then,  even  as  a 
child,  I  was  constantly  coming  and  going,  and  I 
loved  it  better  than  any  otlier  place  in  the  world." 

"  It  is  a  fine  old  place,"  he  says,  following  my 
look  ;  "  any  one  might  well  be  fond  of  it." 

I  glance  at  his  face  ;  but  it  is  perfectly  uncon- 
scious— entirely  free  from  hatred,  envy,  or  any  un- 
charitableness.  He  speaks  of  Woodhay  just  as  he 
might  of  any  of  the  neighboring  places — the  Towers 
of  Dunsandle. 

''  I  think  one  always  cares  for  one's  own  property; 
very  few  people  hate  the  place  where  they  were  born. " 

*'Very  few,"  he  agrees  readily.  ''No  matter 
how  well  people  get  on  in  India  or  the  colonies, 
they  always  intend  sooner  or  later,  to  'go  home.* 
Not  one  man  in  a  hundred  would  be  satisfied  to  die 
in  a  foreign  country." 
•     "  Not  even  a  Chinaman  !  "  I  laugh. 

*'  Not  even  a  Chinaman  or  a  coolie  who  has  lost 
caste.  But  they  never  do  go  home  ;  if  a  Chinaman 
by  any  chance  loses  his  pig-tail,  he  never  goes 
home  again." 

"  Doesn't  he  ?  "  I  say,  with  much  interest. 

I  have  risen  from  my  sofa,  and  am  standing  in 
the  window,  my  hands  clasped  at  the  back  of  my 
neck,  my  eyes  on  the  distant  blue  hill  melting 
hazily  into  the  bluer  sky.    Bonald  is  standing  ia 


IfOR  LIFE  AND   LOViS.  9;^ 

the  window  beside  me,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  gray  tweed  coat. 

*'  I  feel  as  if  something  were  going  to  happen/*  I 
remark  dreamily.  "  I  should  say  it  was  a  thunder- 
storm, if  that  sky  did  not  look  so  much  more  like 
wind.  Have  you  ever  had  previsions.  Cousin  Ron- 
ald?" 

**Not  such  as  you  mean,"  he  answers,  with  his 
grave  smile. 

**  Have  you  never  felt  that  something  was  going 
to  happen  ?  " 

"  Often.  But  it  was  not  from  any  premonitory 
mental  depression." 

"  Lowness  of  spirits  is  not  a  sure  sign  of  impend- 
ing misfortune.  Don^t  you  know  what  Shakespeare 
says — 'Against  ill-fortune  men  were  ever  merry.'" 

'*  Or  when  old  women  tell  children  they  will  soon 
cry,  because  they  are  laughing  so  much  ! "  he  adds, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  That  is  another  case  in  point." 

"I  don't  think  you  are  merry  enough  now  to 
dread  any  misfortune  following  on  the  skirts  of 
your  merriment  ?  " 

I  glance  at  him,  displeased.  This  brown-eyed 
cousin  of  mine  laughs  at  me,  and  I  do  not  like  it. 

"You  will  believe  me  when  we  hear  some  bad 
news  perhaps  I " 

"I  thought  we  were  to  have  ridden  to-day, 
Rosalie.  A  gallop  across  the  moors  would  do  away 
with  a  great  many  of  your  previsions." 

"  I  felt  so  tired,  I  did  not  care  to  ride." 

I  look  out  into  the  garden  again  indifferently.  I 
wonder  what  Ronald  Scott  thinks  of  me  ?  I  know 
my  want  of  interest  in  everything  puzzles  him  a 
little — he  cannot  imagine  why  I  do  not  take  any 
pleasure  in  my  woods,  my  meadows,  my  horses,  my 
dogs,  and  my  beautiful  old  house.    Certainly  I  have 


9^  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfi. 

been  ill,  but  I  am  well  now — so  well  that  I  have 
been  on  horseback  several  times,  and  have  driven 
Olive  and  myself  all  about  Yattenden  in  my  basket- 
phaeton.  But  people  say  my  illness  has  changed 
me  very  much  ;  my  face  looks  haggard  there  are 
dark  shadows  under  my  eyes.  Nobody  knows  what 
I  suffer  ;  through  all  my  wanderings  I  have  never 
mentioned  Gerard  Baxter's  name.  I  am  surprised 
that  I  did  not,  he  is  never  out  of  my  thoughts.  I 
have  never  heard  of  him  since  that  day  when  we 
said  good-by  to  each  other  in  my  leafy  combe — not 
one  single  word  !  I  do  not  know  whether  he  is 
dead  or  alive — Olive  does  not  know.  She  has  never 
spoken  of  him  since  that  morning  she  told  me  all 
she  knew  about  him  as  we  came  through  my  wood. 
I  do  not  think  she  suspects  anything — she  never 
thought  I  cared  for  him  ;  but,  if  she  had  heard  any- 
thing about  him,  she  would  have  been  sure  to  tell  me. 
Ronald  Scott  has  been  very  good  to  me  in  a 
brotherly  kind  of  way — he  and  Olive  treat  me  very 
much  like  a  spoiled  child — sometimes  I  suspect  he 
thinks  me  anything  but  an  agreeable  kind  of  person. 
1  wonder  if  he  ever  cared  for  anybody  himself— if 
he  cares  for  anybody  now.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  tell  from  that  grave  stern  face — I  often  fancy  he 
is  a  man  who  would  have — 

"  Two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with 
And  one  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loved  her." 

"  Cousin  Ronald,"  I  ask  suddenly,  without  turn- 
ing my  head,  "have  you  any  sweetheart  in  Eng- 
land?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask.  Cousin  Rosalie  ? 

"Because  I  want  to  know,  I  suppose." 

"  But  I  may  not  care  to  have  you  know  that  I  am 
Bweetheartless." 

"  Then  you  have  none  ?  " 


FOR   LIFE  AND    LOVE.  99 

**  Have  you  one  in  your  eye  for  me  ?  " 

**  I  suppose  you  came  back  for  a  wife,  cousin  ?  " 

**  Why  do  you  suppose  so  ?  " 

"You  are  a  Yankee  for  answering  questions  with 
questions  !  Because,  when  an  Indian  judge  comes 
back  to  England,  everybody  knows  he  comes  back 
to  look  for  a  wife.'' 

"Then  everybody  is  wrong,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned." 

*'  Because  you  know  where  to  find  her  ?  '* 

"  Because  I  did  not  come  home  on  any  such  quest. 
Cousin  Kosalie." 

"  Upon  your  word  ?  " 

*'  Upon  ray  honor  \"  he  laughs,  looking  around  at 
me.  "  Why,  cousin,  I  never  thought  you  had  a 
turn  for  match-making  ! " 

"  I  never  thought  so  either.  But  I  know  plenty 
of  nice  girls — Ellinor  Deane  and  Ada  Rolleston  and 
Katie." 

"  Why  do  you  leave  out  your  own  particular 
friend  ?  " 

"  Do  you  like  Olive  ?  "  I  ask  quickly,  glancing 
round  at  him. 

"  Or  do  you  like  her  too  well  to  wish  to  see  her 
married  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  too  late  to  try  for  Olive,"  I  say, 
shaking  my  head.  ' 

"You  would  not  advise  me  to  enter  the  lists 
against  Lockhart  ?  "  he  asks,  smiling. 

"Well,  I  think  Olive  likes  him— a  little.  But 
she  is  such  a  madcap — what  she  likes  one  day  she 
hates  the  next." 

"  Then,  if  she  likes  Lockhart  to-day,  there  may 
be  some  chance  for  me  to-morrow." 

"  I  should  like  you  and  Olive  to  care  for  each 
other,"  I  say  dreamily.  "  I  like  her  better  than 
any  other  girl  in  the  world. " 


100  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**  Then  you  must  like  me  a  little,  to  wish  to 
bestow  her  upon  me." 

*'  I  like  you  very  much,  cousin.  You  have  been 
very  kind  to  me." 

"  Rosalie,  do  you  like  me  well  enough  to  care 
what  becomes  of  me  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  foolish  question  ?  " 

**  As  you  said  just  now — because  I  want  to  know." 

"  Of  course  I  care.  You  are  the  only  cousin  1 
have — it  is  not  as  if  I  had  half  a  dozen,  or  half  score, 
like  most  people." 

"  And  you  care  for  me  with  all  the  caring  that 
you  might  have  divided  a  g  half  a  dozen,  or, 
perhaps,  half  a  score  ?  " 

I  do  not  answer. 

"  Rosalie,  I  did  not  come  back  to  England  to  look 
for  a  sweetheart — or  a  wife.  But  do  you  think  you 
could  ever  care  enough  for  me — at  any  future  time 
— to  give  me  both  ?  " 

I  turn  my  head  nov/  to  look  at  him.  His  grave 
eyes  meet  mine  unwaveringly ;  his  head  is  a  little 
bent  as  he  looks  intently  into  my  face. 

"No,"  I  answer,  in  the  same  grave  matter-of-fact 
tone  in  which  he  has  spoken,  without  any  change  of 
coior  or  added  pulsation  of  the  heart.  "  I  shall 
never  care  for  any  one,  Ronald — I  do  not  intend  to 
marry  any  one.  This  place  ought  to  havo  been 
yours — at  my  death,  it  will  belong  to  you." 

"  At  your  death  ! "  he  repeats,  with  a  shocked 
look.  "  Why,  child,  I  am  ever  so  many  years  older 
than  you  are  !  " 

*'  Only  ten.  And,  when  one  does  not  care  to  live, 
it  makes  a  great  difference — " 

"  But  you  care  to  live  !  It  is  only  some  morbid 
fancy  you  have  taken  into  your  head — people  often 
take  such  fancies  into  their  heads  when  they  have 
been  ill." 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  lOt 

•*  This  is  no  fancy  of  mine — the  stronger  I  get, 
the  more  I  seem  to  see  how  little  life  is  worth 
living  \" 

"  But  you  have  so  much  to  live  for ;  you  have 
everything  your  heart  can  desire." 

Have  I  ?  I  do  not  answer  him,  my  eyes  are  on 
the  great  pearly  bank  of  cloud  whose  fringes  are 
slowly  turning  from  silver  to  gold  in  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun. 

"  Bosalie,  will  you  let  me  try  to  make  you  happy  ? 
Will  you  try  to  care  for  me  a  little  ?  I  love  you — 
I  have  loved  you  since  the  first  moment  I  saw  your 
face.  Don^t  you  think  I  could  make  you  happy, 
loving  you  so  much  as  that  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  it  for  a  moment.  I  do  not  seriously 
entertain  the  thought  even  for  one  second  of  time. 
A  year  ago  it  might  have  seemed  to  me  a  very  desir- 
able arrangement.  It  would  restore  Woodhay  to 
the  man  who  I  always  felt  ought  to  have  had  it. 
But  a  year  ago  I  did  not  care  for  any  one  else. 
Now  my  heart  lies  buried  in  a  grave  that  was  dug 
for  it  down  among  the  tangled  ferns  and  leaves  and 
grasses  in  my  shadowy  combe  one  day — a  grave 
whose  fresh  sods  I  have  never  visited — a  grave 
where  with  my  dead  love  I  have  buried  all  hope,  all 
pleasure,  all  desire  of  life. 

*'  I  am  sorry,  if  you  really  care  for  me,  Cousin 
Konald.  I  don't  know  how  you  can " — smiling 
slightly — "  knowing  how  cross  I  am  ! " 

*'  May  I  ask  you  one  question,  Eosalie  ?  " 

I  know  what  the  question  is  before  I  look  round 
into  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  I  answer  slowly  ;  *' I  suppose  you  have  a 
right  to  ask. " 

*'  I  do  not  want  to  ask  it  by  reason  of  any  right, 
and  you  are  not  bound  to  answer  me." 

"  SHo  J  I  am  not  bound  to  answer  you." 


102  FOR   LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  Kosalie,  have  you  ever  fancied  that  you  cared 
for  any  other  man  ?  " 

The  question  is  put  so  gravely,  so  composedly, 
that  it  does  not  startle  me.  I  answer  it  Just  as 
gravely,  just  at  composedly,  looking  straight  before 
me  at  the  smooth  gray  terrace-walk. 

*'  Not  fancied  it,  Cousin  Ronald  !  I  have  cared 
for  another  man  so  much  that,  though  you  may  be  a 
hundred  times  better,  a  thousand  times  worthier, 
you  can  never  be  to  me  what  he  once  was." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  ask  you  his  name.  But  this 
man,  Eosalie,  it  cannot  be  but  that  he  loved  you  m 
return  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  loved  me  ! " 

"  Then  is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  No,'*  I  answer,  with  a  strange  little  smile ; 
"he  is  married." 

For  one  moment  Ronald  Scott  stands  beside  me 
in  dead  silence,  I  do  not  look  at  him ;  but  I  can 
fancy  the  astonishment — the  disgust,  perhaps — in 
his  grave  stern  face — his  silence  might  mean  either 
or  both. 

*'  Poor  child,"  he  says  at  last — and  his  tone  is 
only  pitiful,  not  disgusted  at  all — "  poor  child  !  " 

I  do  not  look  at  him,  and  I  do  not  think  he  is 
looking  at  me.  But  two  great  tears  well  into  my 
eyes  and  fall  upon  my  ashy  purple  gown. 

"I  will  not  trouble  you  any  more,  dear,"  he 
says,  gently.  "1  would  never  have  asked  that 
question  if  I  had  dreamed  what  your  answer  would 
be.  But  I  could  not  think  you  cared  for  any  one — 
it  seemed  so  unlikely  that — he  would  not  care  for 
you." 

I  hold  out  my  left  hand  to  him — the  one  next  to 
him — without  turning  my  head.  The  foolish  tears 
drop  down  my  cheeks  and  fall  upon  the  gown  whose 
dead  violet  shade  Olive  abhors. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  IO3 

"  I  shall  be  your  friend  always,  Eosalie — remem- 
ber that ! " 

"Yes,"  I  say  vaguely,  not  dreaming  how  soon  I 
shall  make  trial  of  nis  friendship;  "I  shall  re- 
member/' 

He  stoops  and  kisses  my  hand  gravely,  dispas- 
sionately, and  walks  out  of  the  room  just  as  Olive 
and  Mr.  Lockhart  come  into  it. 

"  There  is  no  news  in  the  paper  to-day,'^  Olive 
says,  picking  up  the  "  Times  "  from  the  floor  where 
Ronald  Scott  had  thrown  it. 

"Is  there  not  ?"  I  answer  languidly,  still  stand- 
ing in  the  deep  bay  window  looking  out, 

''  Nothing  that  I  call  news.     Oh,  what  is  this  ?  '* 

She  does  not  speak  again  for  a  minute  or  two.  I 
suppose  she  is  studying  the  paragraph  which  seemed 
to  have  attracted  her  attention.  I  am  studying  the 
sunset  colors  in  the  sky,  the  mystic  glory  of  my  sun- 
set hill,  the  deep  ruddy  green  of  my  shadowy  woods. 
Mr.  Lockhart  has  just  wished  us  good-by  and  left 
the  room  ;  Digges  has  carried  away  the  tea-things  ; 
Olive  has  more  than  once  suggested  that  it  is  time 
for  my  ante-prandial  drive  ;  but  I  am  in  no  mood 
for  exerting  myself — even  to  the  extent  of  putting 
on  my  hat. 

"  Such  a  horrible  thing  ! "  Olive  exclaims.  ' '  Allie, 
did  you  know  that  unfortunate  Gerard  Baxter  was 
married  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answer  calmly,  without  turning  my 
head  :  "  I  knew  it  some  time  ago." 

*'  I  declare  I  don't  like  to  tell  you  about  it — it  ia 
enough  to  shock  you  if  you  had  never  known  the 
wretched  boy." 

''What  is  it  ?"  I  ask,  confronting  her.  The  girl 
is  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  looking  up  at 
me  with  a  white  startled  face. 


104  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**  Why,  he  was  arrested  the  day  befor 
©n  a  charge  of  having  murdered  his  wife 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Olive  Deane  went  away  this  morning,  and  Eonald 
Scott  left  after  luncheon — the  house  seems  quite 
lonely  and  deserted.  But  I  am  not  thinking  of 
either  my  friend  or  my  cousin,  as  I  sit  alone  in  my 
brown-paneled  morning-room  at  Woodhay,  holding 
in  my  hand  the  "  Times "  of  yesterday.  I  had 
hidden  the  paper  away  that  I  might  study  something 
in  it  at  my  leisure  to-day — something  that  I  already 
know  by  heart.  As  I  sit  in  the  deep  old-fashioned 
bay-window,  with  the  paper  in  my  hand,  my  eyes 
are  on  the  blaze  of  color  without,  intently  staring. 
I  see  no  sunny  garden  precincts  shut  in  by  tall 
green  hedges  topped  by  the  blue  sky.  I  see  a  man 
in  a  prison-cell — gaunt,  haggard — the  man  whom  I 
still  love  with  all  the  reckless  obstinacy  of  my 
nature — the  boy  whose  weakness  of  purpose  has 
spoiled  both  his  life  and  my  own. 

I  believe  every  word  of  the  story  he  told  to  the 
magistrate  before  whom  they  took  him,  though,  in 
the  face  of  such  overwhelming  evidence  as  was  pro- 
duced against  him,  I  do  not  see  that  there  was  any 
course  open  to  the  magistrate  but  the  course  he 
adopted,  of  committing  him  to  prison  to  take  his 
trial  at  the  October  Sessions  for  the  murder  of  his 
wife. 

The  account  of  the  examination  before  the  mag- 
istrate is  given  in  full  in  the  paper  in  my  hand,  un- 
der the  heading  of ''Police  Intelligence."  I  have 
mastered  every  particular  of  the  case,  weighed 
^very  grain   of  evidence  in  my  own  mind.     But, 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOV£  10$ 

conclusively  as  the  crime  seems  to  be  brought  home 
to  the  wretched  lad  who  is  to  stand  his  trial  in 
October,  I  am  as  entirely  convinced  that  he  had  no 
hand  or  part  in  it  as  I  am  that  I  had  no  hand  or 
part  in  it  myself. 

Three  weeks  before  the  day  Gerard  Baxter  was 
arrested  on  the  charge  of  having  made  away  with 
his  wife — on  the  twenty-third  of  July — his  mother- 
in-law,  Eliza  White,  deposed  to  having  gone  to  his 
lodgings  to  visit  her  daughter.  The  prisoner  opened 
the  door  for  her,  and  told  her  that  her  daughter 
had  gone  out,  about  half  an  hour  before,  to  buy 
something  in  a  neighboring  street.  She  had  gone 
home  perfectly  satisfied,  and  fully  intending  to  call 
again  in  the  evening ;  but  some  business  of  her  own 
prevented  her  doing  this,  and,  when  she  repeated 
her  visit  on  the  following  morning,  she  was  rather 
surprised  to  hear  from  her  son-in-law  that  her 
daughter  had  again  gone  out.  On  neither  occasion 
had  he  invited  her  into  the  room,  but  had  stood  in 
the  doorway  to  answer  her  inquiries.  He  said  her 
daughter  was  quite  well,  and  that  he  expected  her 
in  every  minute  ;  but  he  did  not  ask  her  to  wait  ; 
nor  had  she  time  to  waste  waiting  for  her.  She 
tliought  Gerard  Baxter's  manner  rather  odd  and 
surly  ;  but  then  he  never  had  a  very  pleasant  man- 
ner, and  it  made  no  impression  upon  her.  She  was 
so  sure  that  he  had  been  telling  her  the  truth  on 
both  occasions  that  she  never  thought  of  making 
any  inquiries  among  tlie  neighbors.  In  answer  to 
the  magistrate,  she  said  tlie  lodgings  were  very  poor 
ones.  Gerard  B-.ixter  was  an  artist,  and  could  not 
always  sell  his  pictures  ;  but  he  had  made  some 
copies  of  pictures  for  churches,  she  thought,  and 
they  had  brought  in  some  money.  They  never  were 
in  actual  want. 

She  went  on  to  say  that  she  had  not  called  agaiij 


106  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVl^. 

for  several  days,  being  rather  hurt  with  her  daugh- 
ter for  ijever  coming  near  her.  She  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  running  into  her  house  every  evening 
almost  when  her  husband  went  out.  Tliey  had  not 
got  on  very  well  together.  Her  daughter  was  a 
child  almost,  and  very  thoughtless,  and  Gerard 
Baxter  was  soured  by  disappointment  and  poverty, 
and  had  lately  begun  to  drink — not  hard,  but  more 
tlian  was  good  for  him  ;  but  he  was  never  cruel  to 
his  wife  at  the  worst  of  times,  so  far  as  she  knew. 
Mrs.  Eliza  White's  evidence  was  so  impartial  that  it 
produced  a  strong  impression  in  her  favor  in  the 
court. 

For  a  whole  week  she  saw  nothing  of  her  daugh- 
ter, nor  did  she  go  to  her  lodgings  to  inquire  after 
her.  She  blamed  herself  for  it  very  much  after- 
ward  ;  but  she  had  to  earn  her  own  bread  by  wash- 
ing, and  had  lodgers  to  look  after.  At  the  end  of 
a  week  she  went,  however,  and  found  the  door 
locked  ;  then  she  turned  into  the  room  of  a  neigh- 
bor on  the  next  floor,  a  woman  named  Ilaag,  the 
wife  of  a  German  who  played  the  violin  in  tlie  or- 
chestra of  some  theater — she  forgot  what  theater. 
Mrs.  Haag  said  that  she  was  surprised  to  hear  her 
making  inquiries  for  her  daughter,  since  Baxter  had 
told  them  all  she  had  gone  to  stay  with  some 
cousins  in  the  country.  They  had  not  seen  or  heard 
anything  of  her  in  that  house  since  the  twenty- 
second  of  July  ;  Mrs.  White  herself  had  seen  her 
on  the  twenty-first. 

Mrs.  White  then  resolved  to  wait  till  her  son-in- 
law  should  come  in  ;  but,  though  she  sat  with  Mrs. 
Haag  for  more  than  two  hours,  Baxter  did  not  make 
his  appearance.  Meanwhile  Mrs.  Haag  told  her  all 
she  knew — how  for  three  days  Baxter  had  told  them, 
when  they  inquired  for  ])is  wife,  that  she  had  just 
gone  out  and  would  be  in  presently,  and  on  tha 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  10/ 

fottrth  had  told  her — Mrs.  Haag — that  she  had  gone 
to  visit  some  cousins  in  the  country.  The  neigh- 
bors suspected  notliing.  When  they  asked  for  her 
later  on,  he  said  he  had  had  letters  from  her,  and 
evenVgave  them  messages  which  she  sent  to  them  in 
the  letters.  He  looked  dark,  Mrs.  Haag  said  ;  but 
then  he  always  did  look  dark,  and  kept  himself 
very  much  to  himself.  She  did  not  think  they  had 
got  on  very  well  of  late.  He  left  his  wife  alone  very 
much,  and  they  all  pitied  her — she  was  so  young — 
a  mere  child,  and  so  pretty.  On  the  morning  of 
the  twenty-second,  they  had  had  words  about  some- 
tliing  ;  she — Mrs.  Haag — heard  him  threaten  to  rid 
himself  of  her — to  choke  her,  she  thought  he  said  : 
but  such  threats  were  common  enough  In  that  tene- 
ment house — she  had  never  given  them  a  second 
thought. 

Mrs.  White,  finding  Baxter  did  not  come  back, 
left  Mrs.  Haag,  and  went  home.  She  knew  Lily— 
her  daughter's  name  was  Eliza — the  same  as  her 
own,  but  she  always  called  herself  Lily — had  some 
cousins  in  Kent ;  and,  though  she  was  surprised  to 
hear  she  had  gone  to  pay  them  a  visit,  it  was  not 
outside  the  bounds  of  probability  that  she  should 
have  done  so.  And,  being  troubled  with  her  own 
concerns,  she  gave  no  more  thought  to  the  matter 
until  the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  August. 

Here  the  witness  was  so  overcome  by  grief  that 
it  was  some  time  before  the  examination  could  pro- 
ceed. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  August  a 
policeman  came  to  her  to  take  her  to  the  mortuary. 
A  body  had  been  found  floating  in  the  river  near 
Blaekfriars  Bridge  ;  Mr.  Haag  had  happened  to  see 
it,  and  at  once  recognized  it  as  the  body  of  Mrs. 
Baxter,  and  the  girl's  mother  was  sent  for  to  id^u- 
tify  it,  as  her  husband  was  not  to  be  found, 


108  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

Mrs.  White  had  no  difficulty  in  identifying  the 
body,  though  it  had  been  in  the  water  a  considerable 
time — three  weeks,  the  surgeon  said,  who  made  the 
post-mortem  examination.  The  face  was  much  dis- 
figured from  the  action  of  the  water  ;  but  the  beau- 
tiful red  gold  hair,  the  small  even  teeth,  the  girl's 
height  and  age,  the  wedding-ring  on  her  finger, 
were  all  conclusive  evidence.  Her  clothes  were 
poor,  and  had  no  mark  upon  them — a  black  cash- 
mere dress,  black  jacket,  and  a  little  brooch  with 
hair  in  it,  wliich  Mrs.  White  at  once  recognized  as 
having  been  a  present  from  herself  to  her  daughter 
— she  had  put  the  hair  into  it  hei"self — it  was  her 
father's  hair.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  llaag  had  also  identified 
the  clothes,  but  could  not  remember  the  brooch. 
Mrs.  Haag,  being  called  up,  corroborated  Mrs. 
White's  evidence  in  every  particular.  The  prisoner 
obstinately  refused  to  answer  any  questions  put  to 
him  by  the  bench,  and  maintained  all  through  the 
inquiry  a  sullen  demeanor,  which  had  considerably 
prejudiced  the  court  against  him. 

So  much  I  had  read,  studying  every  word — I  think 
the  sentences  have  burned  themselves  into  my  brain. 
There  were  no  marks  of  violence  on  the  body,  so  far 
as  could  be  ascertained  ;  but,  from  the  state  it  was 
in  when  found,  this  could  scarcely  be  satisfactorily 
proved.  It  was  supposed  that  Baxter  had  pushed 
Ills  wife  into  the  river  on  the  night  of  the  twenty- 
second  of  July — the  day  Mrs.  Haag  had  heard  him 
threatening  to  take  away  her  life. 

I  believe  Gerard  Baxter  to  be  innocent  of  the 
crime  imputed  to  him.  I  have  not  asked  Konald 
Scott  his  opinion,  nor  Uncle  Tod — I  could  not  trust 
myself  to  ask  them  any  questions.  But  I  had  heard 
Olive  ask  Uncle  Tod  at  breakfast  what  they  would 
do  to  Gerard  Baxter,  and  Uncle  Tod  said  they  would 
try  him,  find  him  guilty  most  probably,  and  con« 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  IO9 

demn  him  to  death.  The  guilt  seemed  most  con- 
clusively brought  to  him — whether  he  would  be  rec< 
ommended  to  mercy  or  not,  he  could  not  say.  It 
might  come  out  that  there  had  been  extenuating 
circumstances  ;  but,  to  Uncle  Tod's  mind,  there 
were  no  extenuating  circumstances.  It  was  a  hor- 
rible business  altogether. 

It  is  a  horrible  business.  I  think  so,  as  I  sit  star- 
ing into  my  quiet  sunny  garden,  into  which  even  the 
echo  of  such  evil  deeds  has  never  come.  It  is  all  so 
peaceful,  so  orderly — the  blackbirds  and  thrushes 
hop  in  and  out  of  the  tall  thick  walls  of  yew  and 
beech,  my  peacock  glimmers  up  and  down  in  the 
distance,  faint  pearly  clouds  float  across  the  serene 
sky.  How  different  it  is  from  the  wretched  Lon- 
don street,  perhaps  more  wretched  court  or  alleyj 
where  the  man  to  whom  I  would  have  as  freely  giv- 
en Woodhay,  with  all  its  gardens  and  terraces,  woods 
and  meadows,  has  worked  and  starved  till  it  seems 
that  his  misery  has  driven  him  mad  !  I  hate  the  blue 
sky,  the  orderly  flower-beds,  the  ruddy  gables,  and 
carved  window-settings  of  my  quaint  old  house.  I 
cannot  bear  to  look  at  them,  thinking  how  little 
happiness  they  have  given  me.  If  I  had  been  what 
he  imagined  me,  the  penniless  girl  learning  music 
as  a  means  of  future  livelihood,  I  would  have  mar- 
ried him,  and  we  should  have  been  happy.  But  I 
refused  him,  because  I  was  Miss  Somers  Scott  of 
Woodhay  Manor.  And  now  all  my  woods  and  moors 
and  meadows  have  turned  to  ashes  between  my 
teeth. 


**  Aunt  Rosa,  I  am  going  up  to  London." 
"  To  London  !  "  Aunt  Rosa  repeats,  staring  at  me 
through  her  spectacles,  aghast. 

*'  Yes.     I  am  going  up  on  business." 


no  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

"  But,  my  dear  Eosalie,  you  are  no  more  fit  to 
travel — " 

"  My  dear  Aunt  Rosa,  it  is  Just  what  I  want — 
some  variety.  I  iiave  telegraphed  to  Mrs.  Wauchope 
to  have  my  old  rooms  in  Carleton  Street  ready  for 
me  to-morroAV." 

"  You  have  telegraphed  to  Mrs.  Wauchope  !  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  going  up  to  those 
dreadful  lodgings  again — alone  ?  " 

*'  Where  else  would  you  have  me  go,  Aunt 
Rosa  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  might  be  going  to  Olive,  or 
to  the  Rollestons.' " 

''  The  Rollestons  are  in  Denmark  ;  and  I  don't 
want  to  catch  another  fever  in  Dexter  Square.'' 

*'  Dear  me,  I  forgot  that  !  " 

"  Xot  that  I  am  afraid  of  the  fever,"  I  am  bound 
to  add  honestly.  "I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
it  ;  but  I  prefer  going  to  Carleton  Street  for  a  great 
many  reasons." 

"  If  you  go,  I  shall  go  with  you,"  Aunt  Rosa, 
says  decisively. 

"  And  leave  Uncle  Tod  with  that  cold  on  his 
chest  ?  My  dear  Aunt  Rosa,  I  assure  you  I  am  very 
well  able  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"You  will  take  Kannette  with  you,  of  course  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  I  answer  at 
once.  My  new  maid  is  a  Aveariness  to  me.  If  old 
nurse  Marjory  had  not  boen  past  her  work,  I  would 
never  have  installed  her  in  the  lodge  and  hired  this 
pert  French  souhrette  in  her  stead. 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  it  is  an  unheard-of  thing  for 
a  girl  in  your  position  to  go  up  to  lodgings  in  Lon- 
don alone." 

"Nobody  need  know.  And  it  is  not  as  if  Mrs. 
Wauchope  were  not  an  old  friend  ;  and  I  shall  only 
be  gone  a  day  or  two  probably.     If  anything  should 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  11! 

happen  to  detain  me  in  town,  you  may  follow  me— 
if  you  like,  and  if  Uncle  Tod's  cold  is  better." 

Aunt  Eosa  does  not  like  the  arrangement  from 
any  point  of  view. 

"  You  are  very  self-willed,  Eosalie.  You  were 
always  headstrong,  since  you  were  a  baby  of  three 
years  old.  If  ever  a  girl  wanted  a  father  or  mother 
to  control  her,  I  think  you  wanted  them.  As  for 
your  Uncle  Todhunter,  if  you  had  cried  for  the 
he  moon,  would  have  tried  to  get  it  for  you.  I  often 
told  him  he  spoiled  you,  and  so  he  did." 

''I  think  I  was  ahvays  obstinate,  whether  Uncle 
Tod  spoiled  me  or  not.  Aunt  Eosa,  do  you  know 
Cousin  Eonald's  address  in  town  ?  " 

Aunt  Eosa  stares  at  me,  scandalized — this  time 
over  the  rim  of  her  spectacles. 

"  My  dear  Eosalie,  are  you  going  to  Sir  Eonald 
Scott's  hotel  in  London  to  call  upon  him  ?" 

"Not  unless  I  should  want  him,  auntie.  But  it 
is  well  to  know  the  address  of  a  friend  in  London." 

"  He  is  staying  at  tlie  hotel  your  uncle  always  goes 
to  in  London.     But  I  do  hope,  Eosalie — " 

"That  I  will  not  do  anything  unbecoming.  My 
dear  Aunt  Eosa,  I  can  be  very  steady — when  I  like  ; 
and  I  am  sure  you  can  trust  to  the  chivalry  of  your 
friend  Eonald  Scott." 

"  Sir  Eonald  Scott  is  a  perfect  gentleman.  What 
will  he  think  of  this  freak  of  yours,  Eosalie  ?  Do 
you  suppose  be  will  approve  of  your  going  up  to 
London  alone  like  this  ?" 

"Eonald  Scott's  opinion  of  my  proceedings  is  not 
of  vital  importance,"  I  answer,  throwing  up  my 
head.  "  Whether  he  is  pleased  or  displeased  mat- 
ters very  little  to  me.  I  am  going  up  to  London  on 
business  which  nobody  else  could  manage  for  me. 
If  he  chooses  to  disbelieve  my  assertion — should  1 
feel  called  upon  to  make  it — it  is  nothing  to  me/' 


112  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**Iwish  it  were  something  to  you,"  Aunt  Rosa 
Bays  a  little  wistfully,  looking  at  me.  "  He  is  a  fine 
fellow — a  true  gentleman  ;  and  he  cares  for  you, 
Rosalie — he  asked  your  Uncle  Todhunter's  permis- 
sion to  pay  his  addresses  to  you.  But  I  suppose  you 
snubbed  him,  as  you  snubbed  all  the  rest." 

"  Dear  Aunt  Rosa,'^  1  answer  gravely,  "  you  can- 
not like  Ronald  better  than  I  do  ;  and  what  I  said 
to  him  I  said  as  gently  as  I  could." 

"  AVhy  must  you  have  said  it  at  all,  child  ?  " 

''Because  I  could  not  care  enough  for  him  to 
marry  him,  auntie." 

Aunt  Rosa  sighs.  Slie  would  be  so  glad  to  hand 
me  over  to  some  good  steady  man  like  Ronald  Scott, 
who  could  keep  me  in  order.  She  would  be  so 
thankful  to  wash  her  hands  of  me  and  my  vagaries, 
fond  as  she  is  of  me,  once  and  forever. 

"  I  don't  despair  but  that  you  will  come  to  your 
senses  some  day,  and  marry  him,"  she  says,  deliber- 
ately getting  up  from  the  luncheon  table.  "  I  think 
your  Uncle  Todhunter  would  die  happy  if  he  knew 
that  you  were  married  to  such  a  man  as  Sir  Ronald 
Scott." 

'*  You're  looking  poorly  enough  still,"  Mrs. 
Wauchope  says,  regarding  me  by  the  light  of  the 
gas  in  her  great  dingy  drawing-room.  "I  don't 
know  whether  it's  the  bonnet,  or  what  ;  but  you 
look  ten  years  older  than  you  did  when  you  were  up 
here  with  me  in  the  spring." 

Mrs.  Wauchope  is  truthful,  if  she  is  not  compli- 
mentary. Glancing  at  myself  in  the  sea-green 
depths  of  the  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece,  I  am 
forced  to  acknowledge  that  I  do  look  ten  years  older 
than  when  I  last  saw  myself  reflected  between  the 
tall  vases  of  imitation  Bohemian  glass  which  grace 
tlie  mantelshelf.     In  deference  to  Aunt  Rosa's  old- 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  II3 

fashioned  notions,  and  for  other  reasons,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  give  myself  as  staid  an  appearance  as 
possible,  wearing  the  close  black  bonnet  which 
Olive  always  said  gave  me  a  demure  look,  though 
my  dimples  were  against  me.  And  I  am  wrapped 
up  in  my  long  fur-lined  cloak,  and  have  altogether 
the  look  of  a  respectable  young  widow,  as  I  say  to 
Mrs.  Wauchope,  laughing,  while  she  gets  my  tea 
ready  with  her  own  plump  hands. 

'•'  Isn^t  this  a  terrible  business  about  poor  Mr. 
Baxter?"  she  remarks  presently,  "I  never  got 
such  a  turn  in  my  life  as  when  I  saw  all  about  it  in 
the  paper.  And  such  a  young  lad  as  he  is  too  ;  and 
I  believe  she  was  little  more  than  a  child  I" 

"Do  you  think  he  did  it?"  I  ask,  standing  on 
the  rug.  My  landlady  is  busied  at  the  table,  with 
her  back  toward  me ;  she  does  not  look  round, 
though  I  can  scarcely  keep  my  voice  steady  while 
I  speak  the  six  words. 

"  Oh,  everybody  knows  he  did  it  ! " 

*'  How  can  they  know  ?  " 

**  But  there  was  no  one  else  to  do  it." 

**  That  proves  nothing." 

**  Oh,  but  he  was  heard  to  threaten  her  !  And 
then  the  stories  he  made  up  !  And  I  believe  she 
was  a  flighty  little  thing,  and  too  pretty  for  her 
station  in  life.  Those  painters  had  spoiled  her, 
forever  painting  her  picture.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  I  found  her  photograph  up  in  his  studio 
— pinned  to  the  wall." 

A  thrill  of  something  very  like  jealousy  of  the  dead 
girl,  whose  photograph  Gerard  Baxter  had  cared 
to  pin  up  in  his  room,  runs  like  a  needle  through 
my  heart.  But  what  right  have  I  to  be  jealous  of 
her — the  wretched  child  who  had  been  his  wife  ? 

*'Have  you  seen  him  since  he  gave  up  painting 
hare,  Mrs.  Wauchope  ?  " 
8 


114  ^OK  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

*'  Once  or  twice — not  more  than  that.  I  heard 
he  was  married  ;  and  I  was  sorry  to  hear  it,  know- 
ing the  kind  of  person  he  married.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  good  in  him,  poor  lad  ;  but  he  waa 
as  unstable  as  water — he  never  finished  anything. 
There  are  upwards  of  twenty  pictures  up-stairs,  not 
one  of  them  finished.  If  they  were  any  good,  I'd 
sell  them  to  pay  up  his  arrears  of  rent ;  but  they're 
nothing  but  useless  lumber." 

*'I  wish  you  would  let  me  see  them,  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope.  I  shouldn't  mind  taking  some  of  them  off 
your  hands.  And,  if  Mr.  Baxter  ever  comes  to 
claim  them,  you  can  refer  him  to  me." 

"You  are  welcome  to  see  them,  Miss  x\llie.  The 
studio  is  just  as  he  left  it — I  never  even  let  the  bed- 
room since.  You  see  I  iiad  a  regard  for  him,  having 
known  him  so  long  ;  and  I  tliought  he  would  come 
back  to  me  some  day,  till  I  heard  he  had  married 
that  girl." 

After  tea,  Mrs.  Wauchope  takes  me  up-stairs.  If 
the  studio  had  had  an  untidy  look  when  I  first  saw 
it,  it  looks  like  nothing  now  but  a  gloomy  attic  full 
of  lumber — the  empty  easel  pushed  into  a  corner, 
the  unfinished  canvases  covered  with  gray  cobwebs, 
every  chair  and  table  covered  inch-deep  with  dust. 

"  Here  is  the  photograph,"  Mrs.  Wauchope  says, 
taking  something  from  the  table  and  wiping  it  with 
her  black  apron.  "  A  pretty  face,  is  I't  it  ?  I've 
known  a  man  to  lose  his  life  for  a  face  that  wasn't 
half  as  pretty  as  that." 

**  But  what  had  her  face  to  do  with  it  ?  "  I  ask 
vaguely. 

"  Why,  they  say  he  was  jealous,  you  know.  She 
■was  a  flighty  little  thing,  and  some  artist  was  paint- 
ing lier  picture,  and  Mr.  Gerard  didn't  like  it. 
That  was  what  they  were  quarreling  about  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  it  happened." 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  II5 

I  stand  in  the  light  of  Mrs.  Wauchope's  mold 
candle,  looking  at  the  photograph  in  my  hand.  It 
is  a  beautiful  face — an  exquisite  face — soft  and 
bright  and  innocent  as  a  child's. 

"  I  will  keep  this  for  the  present,  Mrs.  Wauchope. 
May  I  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wauchope  nods.  Lily  Baxter's  photograph 
is  in  all  the  shop-windows  ;  but  she  does  not  care  to 
have  it  at  all. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Early  the  next  morning  I  trangress  all  Aunt 
Rosa's  rules  of  propriety  by  taking  a  cab  and  driv- 
ing to  my  Cousin  Ronald  Scott's  hotel.  I  find  him 
finishing  breakfast,  half  a  dozen  business  letters 
scattered  about  the  table. 

"  Ronald,"  I  say,  in  my  honest  fearless  way,  *'I 
have  come  to  put  a  promise  you  made  me  to  the  test." 

*'I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Rosalie,"  he  answers, 
standing  by  the  table.  I  have  refused  the  chair  he 
oSered  me,  with  the  plea  that  my  cab  was  waiting 
below. 

"Do  you  remember  the  promise,  cousin  ?" 

*'  I  have  forgotten  nothing,"  he  says,  smiling  a 
little. 

*'  I  want  you  to  manage  an  interview  with  that 
man — Gerard  Baxter — who  is  in  prison  for  murder- 
ing his  wife," 

Ronald  Scott  looks  profoundly  surprised. 

"  For  me  or  for  you  ?"  he  asks,  his  eyes  on  my 
white  face. 

"  For  me.  You  can  be  present,  of  course ;  I 
should  wish  you  to  be  present.  And  it  need  not 
last  more  than  five  minutes,  it  so  long." 

Ronald  S«ott  makes  110   answer  whatever  for  a 


Il6  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

minute  or  two.  He  is  standing  by  the  table,  one 
hand  resting  upon  it,  looking  down  at  me  as  I  look 
up  at  him. 

*'  Do  you  think  you  can  do  this  for  me,  Ronald  ?  ** 

*'  I  can  try.     Was  he  an  acquaintance  of  yours  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  friend — was,  and  is." 

**  I  should  say  '  was,' "  Ronald  observes,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders. 

"  I  say  *  is '  "  I  repeat  stubbornly.  **  Gerard  Bax- 
ter is  a  friend  of  mine." 

Ronald's  dark  brows  meet  in  a  rather  heavy 
frown. 

*^May  I  ask  how  you  made  his  acquaintance, 
Rosalie  ?  " 

"  We  lodged  in  the  same  house  in  London — the 
house  in  Carleton  Street  where  I  am  staying  now." 

"  But  how—" 

I  cannot  help  laughing  outright  at  the  exceeding 
gravity  of  his  face.  I  think  of  the  bunch  of  violets  ; 
but  I  do  not  tell  Ronald  about  them — it  is  so  dif- 
ferent relating  a  piece  of  thoughtless  folly  like  that 
— it  would  seem  so  much  more  heinous  an  offense 
repeated  under  the  cold  unsympathetic  eyes  of  my 
judicial  cousin  ! 

*'  I  cannot  think  how  you  ever  made  his  acquaint- 
ance, Rosalie.  If  you  had  been  lodging  in  the  same 
house  for  fifty  years,  you  should  have  had  no  ac- 
quaintance with  him." 

"  Oh,  he  was  quite  respectable  !  I  met  him  in 
other  places — in  society.  The  Rollestons  knew 
him — he  was  at  their  house  every  day." 

"  As  to  his  respectability,"  Ronald  says  coldly, 
*'  that  must  be  a  matter  of  opinion.  Subsequent 
events  have  proved  that  he  could  not  have  been  a 
very  respectable  acquaintance  for  you  or  any  one 
else!" 

**  Oh,  subsequent  events  ! " 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  11/ 

"  But  supposing  there  were  no  subsequent  events. 
This  Baxter  was  a  poor  artist — a  Bonemian — not 
exactly  the  kind  of  friend  Miss  Scott's  friends  would 
have  chosen  for  her — at  least,  I  think  not." 

"  We  will  not  quarrel  about  that,  Ronald.  I  dare 
say  you  are  right ;  but  it  is  too  late  to  bemoan  my 
want  of  exclusiveness  now.  What  I  want  you  to  do 
is  to  manage  that  I  may  see  my  friend — if  it  is  only 
for  one  moment." 

**  For  what  ?  "  he  asks  rather  sharply. 

*' Merely  to  ask  him  a  single  question." 

He  looks  at  me  doubtfully.  His  face  has  grown 
pale  under  all  its  sunburn — as  pale  as  my  own. 

"  I  will  keep  my  promise,  Kosalie.  But  it  will  bo 
altogether  in  defiance  of  my  better  judgment." 

"Then  so  much  the  more  I  thank  you  for  keep- 
ing it.  If  it  cost  one  nothing  to  keep  a  promise, 
there  would  not  be  occasion  for  much  gratitude, 
would  there  ?  "  He  does  not  answer,  standing  be- 
fore me,  still  leaning  on  the  table,  still  studying 
my  face.  "  Then,  since  that  is  settled,  I  shall  wish 
you  good-by,  Cousin  Eonald." 

**  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"Back  to  Carleton  Street.  I  have  written  to 
Olive  to  come  to  see  me." 

"  It  was  to — to  see  this  man  that  you  came  up  to 
town?" 

"  Yes." 

"But  what  is  he  to  you,  Rosalie,  that  you  should 
concern  yourself  in  his  affairs  ?  " 

"He  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Then  why  mix  yourself  up  in  such  a  disgraceful 
business  ?  " 

"  Because  the  man  is  innocent,  and  I  must  prove 
it." 

"  Prove  it,  my  poor  child  I    Efow  could  you  prove 


n8  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  There  must  be  some  way  to  prove  it — if  the  man 
is  innocent/' 

I  believe  lie  thinks  my  mind  has  not  quite  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  the  fever — he  certainly  looks  at 
me  as  if  he  thought  me  slightly  (?eranged. 

"  I  have  not  studied  the  cuse.  But  my  own  im- 
pressions are  that  the  man  is  guilty.  If  I  can  man* 
age  what  you  want  me  to  do,  where  shall  I  meet 
you  ?  " 

"  If  you  come  to  Carleton  Street  for  me,  I  shall 
be  ready  to  go  with  you." 

"  It  will  very  likely  be  to-morrow." 

"  Then  I  shall  remain  at  home  all  to-morrow. 
And,  if  you  fail,  you  will  let  me  know  ? '"' 

"  I  will  let  you  know.  I  hope  you  are  taking  care 
of  yourself,  Cousin  Rosalie.  You  look  thoroughly 
•worn  out." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  well — a  little  tired  from  the 
journey  perhaps  ! " 

I  wrap  my  fur  cloak  about  me,  shivering,  though 
it  is  August.  Ronald  walks  down  the  hotel-stairs 
with  me  across  the  hall,  in  a  silence  which  I  do  not 
care  to  break.  lie  puts  me  into  the  cab  in  the  same 
nlmost  stern  silence.  I  do  not  glance  back  at  him 
lis  the  cab  leaves  the  door,  though  he  stands  there 
bareheaded,  looking  after  me.  I  am  thinking  of  a 
man  in  prison — a  man  whom  1  seem  to  love  the 
more  the  more  the  world  hates  him — the  more  he 
fieems  to  have  made  shipwreck  of  his  own  most  mis- 
erable life. 

I  have  seen  Gerard  in  prison.  Ronald  Scott 
managed  it  all  for  me — came  with  me  himself  to  the 
prisoner's  cell. 

I  have  heard  Gerard's  story — I  have  asked  the 
single  question  I  wanted  to  ask  ;  and  the  answer 
has  confirmed  my  own  belief — Gerard  Baxter  is  ia- 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  lig 

nocent  of  the  horrible  crime  imputed  to  him.  I  be- 
lieve every  word  of  the  story  he  has  told  me,  as 
firmly  as  I  believe  that  I  am  a  living  woman.  He 
knows  no  more  of  the  manner  in  which  his  wretched 
wife  met  her  death  than  I  do,  except  that  he  had 
no  hand  or  part  in  it. 

My  interview  with  him  lasted  half  an  h«ur. 
Eonald  Scott  stood  leaning  with  folded  arms  under 
the  barred  window  ;  Gerard  walked  up  and  down 
the  cell  restlessly,  reminding  me  of  some  caged 
creature  : 

"When  all  his  stretch  of  burning  sand  and  sky- 
Shrinks  to  a  twilight  den,  which  his  despair 
Can  measure  at  a  stride." 

He  and  I  met  without  a  word,  with  white  faces, 
with  trembling  outstretched  hands — two  miserable 
beings — so  young,  yet  for  whom  all  the  happiness 
there  might  have  been  in  the  world  seemed  to  have 
come  to  an  end.  What  Eonald  Scott  thought  of  our 
meeting  I  know  not — I  had  never  given  him  a 
thought  during  the  whole  of  the  interview. 

Gerard  had  told  me  his  wretched  story  in  very  few 
words.  What  he  would  not  say  in  self-defense  to 
the  magistrate  he  said  to  me — not  that  I  might 
justify  him  before  the  world — he  seemed  to  care 
very  little  about  that — but  that  he  might  justify 
himself  to  me. 

"  She  left  the  house  on  the  twenty-second  of  July, 
and  I  have  never  seen  her  since,  alive  or  dead,"  he 
said,  pausing  in  his  restless  pacing  up  and  down  to 
confront  me  as  I  sat  on  the  wretched  pallet.  '^  She 
ran  away  in  a  rage  because  I  scolded  her  about  some- 
thing— and  I  never  saw  her  again." 

"  Then  why  did  you  tell  her  mother  what  you  did? 
Why  did  you  invent  those  fctories  for  the  neighbors — 
about  letters  and  messagas  ? " 


120  FOR  LIFE   AND   LOVE.  | 

"  They  asked  me,  and  I  had  to  say  something." 

*'  But  why  not  have  told  the  truth  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  have  said  I  killed  her  than  have 
told  the  truth. '^ 

*'  But  why  ?  "  I  asked,  astonished.  "  If  you  knew 
nothing  about  her,  why  did  you  do  what  must  turn 
to  such  terrible  evidence  against  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  care  about  myself." 

*'But  you  did  not  benefit  her." 

He  turned  away  from  me,  walking  up  and  down 
the  floor  again,  a  deep  red  angry  flush  on  his  hag- 
gard face. 

**  She  was  such  a  fool,  such  a  poor  senseless  idiot ; 
and  I  had  driven  her  to  it — or  so  I  thought.  I 
ought  not  to  have  tried  to  reason  with  her  as  I  would 
with  a  responsible  being  !  I  ought  to  have  shut  her 
up  and  fed  her  with  bread  and  water  like  an  obsti- 
nate child." 

Mrs.  Wauchope's  hint  about  jealousy  came  into 
my  mind.  He  had  been  jealous  of  somebody — some 
artist  who  had  been  painting  his  wife's  beautiful 
face. 

^'It  would  have  been  better  to  have  told  the 
truth,"  I  repeated.  "Better  to  have  said  that  she 
had  gone — you  knew  not  where," 

"  But  I  did  know,  or  I  thought  I  knew.  She  had 
threatened  more  than  once  to  go  to — a  friend  she 
had  in  London.  And  I  thought  that  she  had  carried 
out  her  threat — at  last." 

Eonald  Scott  had  moved  restlessly  at  this  junc- 
ture, but  I  had  never  glanced  at  him.  I  came  here 
to  hear  Gerard  Baxter's  story,  and  I  mean  to  hear  it 
to  the  end. 

'*  But  it  must  have  come  out  sooner  or  later — " 

"  Then  I  should  have  destroyed  myself  !  "  the  lad 
said  fiercely.  "  I  often  wonder  now  why  I  held  mt 
band  I"  '' 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  121 

I  have  wondered  since  how  I  had  strength  to  carry 
out  my  own  resolution  ;  but  my  indomitable  will, 
the  obstinacy  Aunt  Eosa  deplored  so  much  in  my 
character,  and  the  resolution  to  save  Gerard  Baxter, 
if  mortal  power  could  save  him,  carried  me  through. 

**  And  you  never  saw  her  again,  from  that  day  to 
this  ?  " 

"Never  again." 

*'  Do  you  think,"  I  asked  vaguely,  looking  into 
his  hollow  eyes — ''  do  you  think  she — put  an  end  to 
herself  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  it.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  girl 
to  do  a  thing  like  that ! " 

"  Where  is  he — this  man  you  call  her  friend  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  never  uttered  his  name 
to  any  one — except  to  her.  I  know  now  that  my 
suspicions  of  him  were  groundless — it  was  only  tho 
day  the  police  came  for  me  that  I  met  him,  and  he 
asked  why  she  had  not  come  for  any  more  sittings 
for  the  picture.  He  was  an  honest  fellow  though 
he  paid  her  compliments  sometimes — everybody  did. 
And  I  did  not  care  enough  about  her  to  be  jealous, 
only  I  told  her  I  would  have  no  nonsense — I  would 
kill  her  first  \" 

"  She  was  not  happy,  Gerard  ?  " 

"Happy!"  he  repeated  scornfully.  "We  aro 
neither  of  us  happy  !  " 

"You  must  have  broken  her  heart." 

"  Her  heart !  She  had  no  heart — she  was  as 
thoughtless  as  a  baby,  and  as  ignorant.  Her  igno- 
rance disgusted  me  a  hundred  times  a  day  !  " 

"  You  should  have  had  patience  with  her — she 
was  so  young  ! " 

"I  ought.  It  is  that  which  is  killing  me  now. 
Whatever  she  did,  I  drove  her  to  it ;  but  I  do  not 
think  she  took  away  her  own  life.  I  think  she  must 
have  slipped  into  the  1^ate^ — I  don't  know  how  it 


122  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

happened.  I  only  know  that,  since  she  left  the 
house  on  the  twenty-second  of  July,  I  have  never 
seen  her,  alive  or  dead." 

This  had  been  the  substance  of  Gerard's  story. 
And  now,  as  I  drive  away  from  the  prison,  breath- 
ing more  freely  outside  the  shadow  of  those  hope- 
less, stupendous  iron-gray  walls,  I  say  to  Ronald 
Scott,  who  us  sitting  opposite  to  me,  looking  not  at 
me,  but  out  into  the  crowded  street  : 

"What  do  you  think  now,  Ronald  ?" 

"  Very  much  what  I  thought  before,"  he  answers, 
coldly  enough. 

"You  do  not  believe  his  story  ?" 

"His  story  seems  plausible  enough.  If  the  girl's 
body  had  not  been  found,  I  might  have  felt  inclined 
to  believe  it.  But  the  finding  of  the  body  is  a  proof 
that  she  met  with  foul  play ;  and  that  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  false  reports  he  gave  of  her — which  he 
himself  acknowledges  were  false — and  his  jealousy 
of  the  man  whose  name  he  would  not  give,  seems  to 
me  most  conclusive  evidence  of  his  guilt." 

"  But  he  was  not  jealous  of  her,"  I  say,  feverishly. 

"  I  scarcely  believe  that.  He  must  have  cared  for 
her  to  have  married  her.  And  she  seems  to  have 
had  a  most  beautiful  face." 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Her  photograph  is  in  all  the  shop- windows." 

Ronald  Scott  is  not  communicative.  Anything  I 
do  gather  from  him  is  dealt  out  with  a  reticence 
which  would  have  annoyed  me  if  I  had  not  been 
too  much  wrapped  up  in  my  own  thoughts  to  re- 
sent it. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ? "  he  inquires 
presently.     "Home  ? " 

"  No.     I  am  going  to  *  interview '  Mrs.  White." 

"  Rosalie,  let  me  i\dvise  you  to  do  no  such  thing. 
Xou,  don't  know  what  the  woman  is,  or  where  she 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  1 23 

lives.  Your  uncle  would  be  justly  angry  with  me  if 
I  allowed  you  to  go  into  such  purlieus^  among  the 
very  lowest  dregs  of  society — '*' 

"  Uncle  Tod  need  know  nothing  about  it.  And 
if  you  think  your  respectability  in  any  wise  com- 
promised by  being  seen  in  such  a  locality,  I  will  stop 
the  cab,  and  allow  you  to  step  out  on  to  the  pave- 
ment." 

"  If  you  go,  I  will  certainly  go  too,"  he  answers, 
with  a  vexed  smile.  "At  least,  it  is  safe  for  you 
with  me.  But  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  I  enter  a 
very  strong  protest  against  the  entire  proceeding." 

"  Then  let  that  quiet  your  conscience.  I  promise 
you  not  to  stop  longer  than  I  can  help  in  Taw  Alley 
— I  have  no  weakness  myself  for  the  kind  of  locality 
I  presume  it  to  be.  But  I  want  to  see  this  Mrs. 
White,  though  I  do  not  know  that  it  will  lead  to 
any  discovery  which  could  benefit  our  cause." 

Taw  Alley  is  not  so  utterly  wretched  a  place  as  I 
imagined.  There  is  a  piece  of  waste  ground  at  the 
end  of  it,  where  children  are  playing  and  where 
gome  clothes  are  hung  out  on  lines  to  dry.  It  is 
merely  a  small,  mean  by-street,  with  small  mean 
houses,  not  one  of  the  dens  of  wretchedness  I  had 
pictured  to  myself. 

We  had  left  the  cab  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley, 
and  I  ask  the  first  woman  I  see  standing  in  a  door- 
way if  she  could  direct  me  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 
White,  the  laundress. 

*'I  am  Mrs.  White,"  the  woman  answers,  with  a 
quick  cunning  look,  first  at  my  companion,  and 
then  at  me.  She  is  a  white-faced,  white-ey clashed 
woman  with  red  hair — I  rather  pity  the  defunct 
Mr.  White  who  was  "  once  a  gentleman  "  as  I  look 
at  her. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  a  friend  of  Mr.  Baxter — your  son-in- 
IftW.     And  I  wanted  to  see  you — and  this  place," 


1^4  ton  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

Eonald  Scott  seems  aghast  at  my  temerity.  But 
he  does  not  attempt  to  interfere.  At  Gerard  Bax- 
ter's name  the  woman's  face  had  changed.  She 
hates  him — I  know  it  the  moment  I  see  that  change 
in  her  countenance — hates  him,  notwithstanding 
the  **  impartiality  "  which  had  won  her  such  favor 
in  the  court. 

"  I  have  heard  of  your  daughter/'  I  say,  doubtful 
how  to  enter  upon  such  a  delicate  subject  with  a 
perfect  stranger,  even  though  the  stranger  be  a  per- 
son like  Mrs.  White. 

"  About  her  !  "  the  woman  exclaims  quickly. 
"What  about  her  ?" 

*'  Why,  all  about  this  sad  business  ! " 

The  woman  raises  her  apron  to  her  face.  She 
has  protruding  eyes — so  very  protruding  that  they 
look  as  if  they  might  at  any  moment  fall  out  of  her 
head.  And  I  know  by  experience  that  a  woman 
with  those  eyes  will  talk  while  she  can  get  any  one 
to  listen  to  her. 

"You  may  well  call  it  a  sad  business,  my  lady. 
Many  a  one  comes  here  to  see  me,  and  they  all  calls 
it  a  sad  business." 

"  She  was  very  young,  and  very  pretty." 

"  Indeed  she  was  !  Much  like  myself  when  I  was 
a  girl.  But  sorrow  changes  a  person's  looks — sorrow 
and  want  and  a  bad  husband  will  soon  take  the 
beauty  out  of  the  handsomest  face  in  the  world  !  '* 

Ronald  turns  away  and  stares  down  the  alley. 
Mrs.  White,  whose  apron  does  not  reach  as  high  as 
her  eyes,  changes  her  tactics. 

"  She  was  the  only  child  I  had — the  only  one. 
Think  what  'twould  be  to  you,  my  lady,  to  see  the 
only  thing  you  loved  in  the  world  fished  up  out  of 
the  river  there  like  a  dead  dog  !  There's  things 
nobodv  can  forget  if  they  was  to  live  a  thousand 
years  V* 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  125 

She  glances  at  Ronald  when  she  speaks  of  "  th« 
only  thing  you  loved  in  the  ■wor]<^."  I  suppose  sho 
thinks  he  is  my  husband. 

*'  Was  she,"  I  ask,  and  I  shall  never  know  what 
prompts  me  to  ask  the  question — "  was  slie  much 
changed  ?" 

Again  the  woman  glances  cunningly  into  my  face. 

"She  was  over  three  weeks  in  the  water,  my  lady 
—in  course  she  was  changed." 

'■'  Yet  you  recognized  her,  beyond  any  manner  of 
doubt?" 

"I  was  her  mother,  my  lady.  I  would  have 
known  her  if  I  saw  nothing  but  her  hair.  Lovely 
golden  hair  it  was — you  may  have  seen  it  in  her  pic- 
ture— lots  of  people  saw  it.  It  was  her  hair  the 
artist-gentlemen  admired — Venetian  hair  they  called 
it — though  some  might  call  it  red.  We  set  no  store 
by  her  looks  till  people  began  to  take  notice  of  her 
— 'twere  an  uncommon  kind  of  good  looks  she  had 
— like  a  picture  !  " 

"  You  identified  her  dress  of  course  ;  you  would 
remember  everything  she  was  in  the  habit  of  wear- 
ing ?  " 

Again  the  woman  pauses,  eying  me.  And  at  the 
pause  Eonald  Scott  turns  round  to  look  at  her. 

"  It  would  be  queer  if  I  didn't,  and  I  seeing  them 
and  her  every  day  of  her  life  ! " 

"  It  would  be  queer  indeed.  And  you  recognized 
her  clothes  at  once  ?  " 

"  The  minute  I  laid  my  eyes  on  them." 

"  Even  the  little  brooch  you  gave  her — that  you 
put  her  father's  hair  into  yourself  !  " 

''  I'd  have  sworn  to  that,  if  I  could  have  sworn 
to  nothing  else,"  Mrs.  White  asseverates  with 
what  seems  to  me  rather  unnecessary  emphasis. 
"  'T wasn't  much  jewelry  poor  Lily  had,  and  he 
never  gave  her  anything — he  hadn't  it  to  give." 


126  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

"It  must  have  been  a  terrible  shock  to  you  whea 
you  saw  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  White's  apron  is  up  to  her  face  again  ;  but 
she  glances  over  the  edge  of  it  with  more  specula- 
tion in  her  eyes  than  is  compatible  with  any  very 
deep-peated  sorrow. 

"  You  may  say  it  was  a  shock  to  me,  my  lady — a 
shock  I  won't  be  the  better  of  for  the  rest  of  my 
life!" 

"  I  do  not  think  anybody  could  be  deserving  of 
greater  pity  than  a  mother  who  has  lost  her  only 
child,"  I  say  advisedly. 

And  then  I  slip  half  a  sovereign  into  the  woman's 
hand  and  turn  away,  Ronald  following  me.  We 
speak  no  word  until  we  find  ourselves  in  the  cab 
again,  well  out  of  hearing  distance  of  Taw  Alley. 

**  Well  ?  "  I  say  then,  stooping  forward  eagerly 
to  look  into  my  companion's  face. 

"  You  would  make  a  first-class  lady  detective. 
Cousin  Rosalie  ! " 

"  But  what  do  you  think,  Ronald  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think,  Rosalie  ?"  ^ 

*' I  think,"  I  say  deliberately,  leaning  back  against 
the  cushion  again,  "  that  woman  would  swear  to 
anything." 

''  So  do  I." 

"  The  body  they  found  was  not  Lily  Baxter's 
body." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  was." 

*'  And  Mrs.  White  has  perjured  herself  ! " 

**  She  hates  her  son-in-law,  and  will  hang  him  if 
she  can." 

I  shiver  in  my  warm  cloak.  But  at  the  same  time 
I  draw  a  long  breath  of  the  most  exquisite  relief. 

"  Do  you  think  she  knows  where  her  daughter  is, 
Eonald  ?  " 

*'iN"o  ;  I  do  not  think  she  does.     She  has  merely 


i?OR  LiFfi  ANf)  LOVE.  12 f 

aworn  to  the  identity  of  the  body  as  a  means  of 
being  revenged  on  Baxter  for  his  treatment  of  the 
girl." 

"  And  Gerard  Baxter  is  innocent ! "  I  exclaim, 
with  a  little  womanly  triumph.  "  And  you,  a  judge^ 
would  have  condemned  him  to  death  !  '* 

"Not  quite,"  Ronald  says,  smiling  for  the  first 
time  since  we  drove  through  the  prison-gates  an 
hour  ago.  "  I  said,  if  the  girl's  body  had  not  been 
found,  I  would  have  been  inclined  to  believe  his 
story.  And  now  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  has  not 
been  found." 

I  am  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  enjoying  that 
delicious  sensation  of  relief.  The  tension  of  the 
last  three  or  four  days  is  relaxed — I  feel  as  if  I 
could  breathe  again. 

"  How  to  find  Lily  Baxter  !  "  I  say,  at  last. 

"  Ah,"  my  cousin  answers  deliberately,  '*  that 
may  be  more  easily  said  than  done  ! " 


We  put  advertisements  in  the  papers — almost  in 
every  paper  in  England.  The  coroner  who  held 
the  inquest  on  the  body  of  Lily  Baxter  must  be 
astonished  if  he  sees  the  notice  in  the  papers,  calling 
upon  her  to  come  forward  and  save  her  husband's 
life.  Nobody  knows  anything  about  it  but  Ronald 
and  I — we  are  probably  the  only  people  in  London, 
except  the  girl's  own  mother,  who  are  not  pitying 
the  unfortunate  victim  and  execrating  the  unnatural 
husband.  The  tragedy  has  made  a  sensation  ;  but 
already  the  interest  is  dying  out — doubtless  all  to 
be  revived  when  the  trial  comes  on  in  October.  I 
remain  on  at  my  lodgings  in  Carleton  Street  day 
after  day,  vainly  hoping  that  Ronald  may. bring 
some  good  news.  But,  though  he  is  doing  every- 
thing he  can,  it  is  very  little  beyond  inserting  ad- 


12?^  fOR  LIFE  AND  LdVti. 

vertisements  and  putting  a  detective  or  two  to 
work  ;  we  hear  nothing  of  the  missing  girl.  Whether 
ehe  knows  the  jeopardy  in  which  her  silence  has 
placed  her  husband  or  not  we  have  no  means  of 
knowing.  But  it  can  hardly  be  that,  knowing  his 
innocence,  she  would  let  him  suffer  the  extreme 
penalty  of  the  law.  However  it  may  be,  or  wher- 
ever she  may  be,  the  days  pass  by — the  long  weary 
days — and  still  she  makes  no  sign. 

The  time  fixed  for  the  trial  is  very  near.  I  have 
made  no  attempt  to  repeat  my  visit  to  Gerard 
Baxter's  cell ;  but  Eonald  Scott  sees  him  very  often, 
and  seems  to  take  great  interest  in  him — he  is  so 
young — such  a  mere  lad,  and,  we  believe,  innocent 
of  the  horrible  crime  laid  to  his  charge.  That 
Eonald  will  exert  himself,  when  the  case  comes  to 
a  trial,  I  am  very  sure.  But,  so  long  as  the  public 
believe  the  murdered  Lily  Baxter  to  be  lying  in  her 
grave  in  the  little  churchyard  where  she  was  buried 
on  the  twentieth  of  August,  they  will  not  be  satisfied 
till  they  have  their  revenge  on  the  wretched  young 
husband.  The  blood  of  the  victim  cries  out  for 
justice,  and,  unless  we  can  produce  Lily  Baxter, 
alive  and  well,  before  the  eighteenth  of  October. 
Gerard  Baxter  may  be  found  guilty  of  her  murder 
and  condemned  to  death. 

It  is  strange  how  firmly  persuaded  both  Ronald 
and  I  are  of  the  duplicity  of  Mrs.  White.  If  we 
had  not  known  her  to  be  a  worthless  woman — every- 
body who  is  acquainted  with  her  gives  her  the  same 
character — we  Avould  still  have  been  persuaded  that 
she  was  telling  a  lie  when  she  said  she  recognized 
her  daughter's  body.  It  was  something  in  her 
manner,  slight,  indefinable,  yet  enough  to  convince 
us,  watching  her  so  closely,  that  she  not  only  was 
unable  to  identify  tre  body,  but  that  she  knew  it 
was  not  Lily's  body  ht  all.     The  hardihood  of  tho 


*"0R  LIFE  ANt)  LOVK.  1^9 

woman  in  risking  discovery  did  not  surprise  us. 
She  looked  hardened  enough  for  anything — quite 
hardened  enough  to  put  a  bold  front  upon  it  should 
Lily  suddenly  turn  up  and  render  her  liable  to  a 
charge  of  perjury. 

I  am  weary  of  waiting,  sick  to  death  of  the  sus- 
pense which  I  suffer  day  after  day.  I  am  going 
home  to-morrow — I  cannot  put  it  off  any  longer — 
I  have  been  nearly  a  fortnight  in  town,  and  Aunt 
Eosa  threatens  to  come  up  to  look  after  me.  I  can 
do  no  good  by  remaining  in  Carleton  Street — I  can 
scarcely  suffer  more  at  Woodhay  than  I  am  suffering 
here,  though  at  Woodhay  I  should  have  no  hope 
after  post-hour,  while  here  Ronald  Scott  might 
walk  in  any  moment  with  some  good  news.  I  can- 
not believe  it  possible  but  that  something  will  turn 
up  to  throw  some  light  on  the  mystery  of  Lily 
Baxter's  disappearance  before  the  day  comes  when 
her  husband  must  stand  in  the  dock  accused  of  her 
murder.  Sometimes  I  feel  half  tempted  to  think 
we  were  mistaken  in  supposing  Mrs.  White  had  not 
really  identified  her  daughter's  body.  The  girl's 
silence  is  so  unbroken,  she  seems  to  have  slipped  so 
completely  out  of  the  only  world  which  had  ever 
known  her,  that  sometimes  I  think,  whether  that 
was  her  body  they  found  in  the  river  or  not,  that 
she  must  be  dead. 

Olive  Deane  comes  to  see  me  very  often.  I  think 
she  is  puzzled  about  me — I  am  sure  she  wonders 
what  can  keep  me  in  London.  I  have  no  excuse 
now  of  music-lessons — there  is  no  piano  in  Mrs. 
Wauchope's  drawing-room,  and  if  there  had  been, 
I  would  not  have  touched  it.  But  she  confesses 
that  my  sojourn  in  town  has  done  me  good.  T 
seem  to  interest  myself  more  in  everything,  I  have 
more  color  in  my  cheeks,  I  do  not  look  so  like  the 
ghost  of  my  former  self  as  1  did  at  Woodhay,  wheii 
7 


130  FOR  LtFfi  AND   LOVE. 

she  and  Uncle  Tod  thouglit — so  she  confesses  to  me 
now — that  I  was  going  to  die  of  consumption. 

I  shall  live  till  Gerard  Baxter's  innocence  is  es- 
tablished, I  shall  live  to  find  Gerard  Baxter's  wife. 
This  excitement  makes  life  endurable.  Kxx^ajJresf 
I  do  not  think  of  any  afterward.  I  am  bound  up 
in  the  present,  heart  and  soul.  I  have  found  a  work 
to  do,  and,  though  I  seem  to  have  been  baffled  at 
the  very  outset,  I  do  not  despair  of  accomplishing 
it  yet. 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  I  have  an  inspira* 
tion. 

It  is  a  solitary  breakfast.  It  is  still  raining  dole- 
fully— I  know  how  Carleton  Street  looks,  though 
I  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  looking  at  it,  on 
principle.  But,  without  going  to  the  window,  I 
can  see  the  drenched  balcony  blackened  by  the  rain, 
fringed  by  bright  drops  wherever  a  drop  can  hang  ; 
I  should  know  it  rained  by  the  limp  droop  of  the 
drab  moreen  curtains  and  of  the  muslin  ones  still 
hanging  behind  them.  But  the  rain  does  not 
trouble  me  much,  does  not  depress  me  as  it  c'.e* 
pressed  me  yesterday,  for  I  have  got  an  idea. 

My  train  will  not  leave  London  until  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  ;  therefore  I  have  five  hours  in  town 
still  at  my  disposal,  it  not  having  yet  struck  ten. 
Two  hours  would  be  ample  for  the  business  I  have 
in  hand — it  is  merely  to  pay  a  visit.  Should  the 
visit  necessitate — as  it  certainly  may,  and  I  hope 
will — a  longer  stay  in  London,  I  must  telegraph  to 
"Uncle  Tod  again.  Aunt  Eosa  will  think  I  have 
gone  mad  ;  but  that  cannot  be  helped.  Some  day 
or  other  I  will  explain  everytliing  to  them — it  maj 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I3I 

ff.ot  satisfy  Aunt  Eosa,  but  it  will  account  for  what 
certainly  must  seem  a  very  wild  freak  to  them  both 
now. 

1  shall  not  ask  Ronald  Scott  to  go  with  me  this 
time.  I  dare  say  he  will  be  very  ar.gry  with  me  for 
not  asking  him  ;  but  I  have  given  him  trouble 
enough  already,  and  can  do  what  I  have  to  do  Just 
as  well  without  him — indeed  perhaps  a  great  deal 
better.  I  am  going  to  see  the  Mrs.  Ilaag  who 
lodged  in  the  same  house  with  the  Baxters,  the 
woman  who  gave  evidence  at  the  examination  be- 
fore the  magistrate,  the  wife  of  the  German  violin- 
ist, the  last  person  perhaps  who  saw  Lily  Baxter 
alive. 

How  the  visit  can  benefit  the  cause  I  have  taken 
up  I  do  not  know.  But  some  strange  impulse 
prompts  me  to  make  it — not  prompts  me  merely 
indeed,  but  drives  me — I  can  describe  it  by  no  other 
word.  I  feel  impelled  to  go  and  see  this  woman. 
She  had  corroborated  Mrs.  White's  evidence,  and 
Mrs.  White  I  believe  to  have  perjured  herself.  But 
she  had  only  sworn  to  what  she  knew,  or  thought 
she  knew — if  Mrs.  AYhite  identified  her  daughter's 
body,  surely  she,  Mrs.  Haag,  would  naturally  be 
led  to  see  in  everything  corroborative  evidence  that 
the  body  was  Lily  Baxter's  body — though  at  the  in- 
quiry she  had  stoutly  denied  having  ever  seen  the 
brooch  before  which  was  found  fastening  the  collar 
of  the  drowned  girl.  This  circumstance  alone  gave 
me  an  idea  that  the  woman  might  be  honest^ — had 
been  honest  in  her  conviction  that  the  girl  they  had 
found  floating  in  the  river  was  none  other  than  the 
girl  she  had  last  seen  alive  on  the  morning  of  the 
twenty-second  of  July. 

I  know  from  the  newspaper  report  where  Mrs. 
Haag  lives,  or  did  live  at  the  time  of  the  inquiry 
into  Lily  Baxter's  disappearance.     If  she  has  left 


132  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

Slator'a  Buildings,  somebody  there  will  be  able  to 
tell  me  where  slie  has  moved  to  probably,  or  the 
people  at  the  theater — I  remember  its  name  and 
situation — will  be  able  to  give  me  her  husband's 
address.  I  have  become  quite  clever  at  hitting  on 
expedients  now,  though  my  cleverness  has  led  to  so 
little.  But  my  want  of  success  has  not  daunted 
me,  though  I  did  lift  up  a  lamentable  voice  in  my 
own  room  last  night  and  cry  as  if  my  heart  would 
break.  But  this  morning  my  courage  has  come 
back  to  me,  the  old  indomitable  will  which  Aunt 
Rosa  calls  stubbornness,  the  obstinacy  which  I 
must  have  inherited  from  the  great-great-grand- 
mother whose  eyes  have  been  transmitted  to  me, 
and  who  was  known  as  the  most  pig-headed  woman 
of  her  time. 

I  have  finished  my  breakfast,  put  on  my  bonnet, 
and  sent  Mary  Anne,  sheltered  by  own  umbrella,  to 
fetch  a  cab.  I  have  a  regard  for  this  stolid,  grimy- 
faced  maid-of-all-work.  She  had  been  kind  to  the 
poor  lad  who  used  to  lodge  here — had  she  not  on 
one  occasion  left  my  newly-lighted  fire  to  its  own 
devices  to  attend  to  his  dinner  ?  If  Mary  Anne 
would  like  a  situation  in  the  country,  I  will  find 
one  for  her  ;  but  I  doubt  if  Mary  Anne  could  live 
out  of  the  basement  of  a  London  lodging-house. 

It  still  rains,  a  fine  cheerless  drizzle.  But  I  am 
not  thinking  of  the  weather  as  I  stare  straight  be- 
fore me  at  the  dingy  "  Coming  of  Age  of  the  Heir'* 
which  reminds  me  so  much  of  the  weeks  I  spent 
here  last  March — those  happy  careless  weeks  when 
Gerard  Baxter  and  I  fell  in  love  with  each  other. 
Then  the  gloomy  old  room  was  a  fairyland  to  me, 
a  fool's  paradise  wherein  I  sat  and  dreamed  of  a 
day  that  was  never  to  be.  "Now  no  boyish  laugh 
echoes  down  the  stairs,  no  suspicion  of  cigar-smoke 
comes  wafted  up  from  the  hall-door  steps.     Only  all 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE  1 33 

the  place  is  full  of  a  haunting  presence,  the  sor- 
rowful ghost  of  the  poor  proud  boy  who  had  dared 
to  fall  in  love  with  me,  and  whom  I  had  been  too 
vise  or  too  weak  to  save. 

How  can  that  girl  he  married  care  so  little  about 
him  ?  She  is  his  wife,  he  her  husband.  If  she  be 
indeed  alive,  how  can  she  let  him  lie  in  such  jeop- 
ardy ?  She  had  cared  for  him  once  ;  he  had  said  to 
me  that  day  at'Woodhay — "  She  was  fond  of  me — I 
"will  do  her  the  justice  to  say  that  she  was  fond  of 
me,  miserable  beggar  that  I  was."  If  she  has  any 
feeling  for  him  still  left  in  her  heart — if  she  does 
not  hate  him  utterly,  as  her  mother  hates  him,  how 
can  she  leave  him  to  languish  in  prison,  accused  of 
a  crime  of  which  she  alone  could  prove  him  inno- 
cent ?  I  believe  her  mother  to  be  a  stupidly  vi- 
cious woman,  who  would  shrink  from  nothing  short 
of  actujll  implication  in  crime.  But.  the  girl  had 
the  face  of  an  angel — I  cannot  believe  her  capable 
of  the  horrible  cruelty  of  allowing  her  husband  to 
die  when  a  word  from  her  could  save  his  life. 

Mary  Anne  comes  back  in  the  cab.  I  put  on  my 
warm  cloak — the  day  is  raw  and  chilly — and  set  out 
on  my  erratic  venture,  without  saying  a  word  to 
any  one  of  where  I  am  going.  Nobody  will  see  me  ; 
even  if  this  had  been  a  day  when  people  would  be 
likely  to  be  out  of  doors,  nobody  could  recognize 
me  through  the  thick  gauze  veil  I  have  tied  closely 
over  the  upper  part  of  my  face.  If  Eonald  Scott 
calls  at  Carleton  Street,  he  will  suppose  I  have  gone 
to  see  Olive  Deane,  or  the  Eoilestons,  who  came 
back  to  town  yesterday.  But  he  is  more  likely  to 
meet  me  at  the  railway-station  at  three  o'clock — • 
indeed  he  is  almost  sure  to  be  there,  to  look  after 
my  luggage — one  portmanteau — and  to  wish  me 
good-by. 

I  reach  Slater's  Buildings  after  much  driving 


134  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

through  devious  streets  and  lanes  of  whose  exist- 
ence even  I  had  not  been  cognizant — wretched 
places  the  mere  sight  of  which  makes  me  wonder 
how  any  human  being  could  live  and  breathe  their 
loathsome  airs.  But  Slator's  Buildings  are  not  so 
bad  as  some  of  these,  nor  is  the  tenement-house  I 
am  in  search  of  in  such  lamentable  want  of  repair 
and  ventilation  as  some  I  have  passed  in  my  jour- 
ney to  it. 

A  woman,  minding  a  little  toddling  child  on  the 
doorstep,  tells  me  that  Mrs.  Haag  does  live  there, 
eying  me  at  the  same  time  with  a  cunningly  sus- 
picious look.  Desiring  the  cabman  to  wait  for  me, 
and  rather  glad  to  see  a  policeman  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  I  follow  the  woman's  directions,  and  a 
minute  later  find  myself  in  the  presence  of  the  Ger- 
man violinist's  wife. 

She  is  a  German  too — I  know  it  before  she  speaks 
— a  stolid,  good-humored -looking  woman  with 
round  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  smoothly  drawn 
back  under  a  white  cap.  Her  room  is  quite  neat 
and  clean  ;  she  was  working  a  sewing  machine 
when  I  tapped  at  the  door  ;  but  she  has  left  her 
work  to  speak  to  me,  politely  offering  me  a  chair. 
But  I  do  not  sit  down  ;  I  tell  her  that  I  am  in  a 
Jnirry,  but  would  be  glad  if  she  could  tell  me  any- 
thing she  knew  about  the  people  who  had  lodged  in 
the  house  in  the  summer — the  Baxters — and  if  she 
thought  it  possible  that  I  could  see  the  room  they 
occupied. 

She  shakes  her  head  ;  she  does  not  think  it  possi- 
ble that  I  could  see  the  room — the  landlord  had  the 
key — it  had  not  been  let  since — people  did  not  seem 
to  care  about  taking  it — nobody  cares  to  take  a  place 
which  has  a  bad  name,  and  people  will  always  give 
a  bad  name  to  a  place  where  such  a  thing  happens 
—it  is  silly  ;  but  people  always  do  it.     She  speaka 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  I35 

in  quaint  German-English.  I  rather  like  her,  and 
her  honest  round  blue  eyes.  She  tells  me  all  she 
knows  about  the  Baxters,  with  hesitation.  I  can 
Bee  that  it  has  never  dawned  upon  her  but  that  Lily 
Baxter  is  dead ;  no  doubt  of  the  body  having  been 
her  body  has  ever  entered  her  head.  That  she  did 
dot  recognize  the  brooch  is  nothing — she  might  have 
had  twenty  brooches  without  Mrs.  Haag  seeing  them 
' — and  she  was  not  observant — she  could  not  even 
«wear  to  the  dress  she  had  on — it  was  the  red  hair 
she  recognized,  she  said,  and  the  black-cloth  jacket. 
That  almost  everybody  wears  a  black-cloth  jacket 
did  not  seem  to  have  struck  her — she  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  girl  found  had  been  the  girl  lost, 
and,  when  the  girl's  own  mother  swore  to  her  iden- 
tity, it  was  not  for  her  to  doubt.  I  could  see  all  this 
plainly  in  every  word  she  said — she  had  taken  it  for 
granted  that  the  drowned  woman  had  been  her 
neighbor ;  and  there,  with  true  German  phlegm,  she 
had  let  the  matter  rest. 

I  do  not  rouse  any  suspicion  to  the  contrary  in  her 
mind  now — it  is  not  for  that  I  came  to  Slater's 
Buildings.  Afterward  we  may  take  this  woman  into 
our  confidence  ;  but  what  I  want  to  find  out  now  is 
whether  Lily  Baxter  had  any  friends — any  girl  of 
her  own  age,  any  comrade,  as  most  girls  have.  Mrs. 
Haag  does  not  know — she  thinks  Mrs.  Baxter  was 
very  childish — silly  rather — and  very  vain.  The 
painter-gentlemen  had  spoiled  her — not  that  she  was 
bad  either,  only  silly  and  childish ;  it  used  to  vex 
her  husband.  And  he  did  not  allow  her  to  associate 
much  with  her  neighbors  ;  he  was  a  gentleman  once, 
and  kept  himself  to  himself,  and  would  have  her  do 
the  same — only  she  was  so  childish,  she  would  not 
be  said  nay  by  him. 

"  But  had  she  no  friend  at  all,  no  companion,  no 
<?ld  school-fellow  ? "  I  ask,  looking  hard  into  the 


136  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

woman's  comely,  unexpressive  face.  "  Did  you  nevef 
hear  her  speak  of  any  comrade — of  any  acquaintance 
even — it  seems  so  strange  for  a  girl  to  have  no  friend 
of  her  own  age,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

*'  The  Herr  painter  would  not  allow  her  to  have 
any  friends, '^  Mrs.  Haag  repeats  stolidly.  "  It  was 
one  reason  they  quarreled,  it  was  one  thing  which 
made  us  dislike  him  ;  he  was  cold,  cruel — he  was  too 
proud.  There  were  some  people  lodging  here — a 
German  and  his  family — the  father  played  the 
*  cello '  in  the  orchestra  with  my  husband.  They 
were  not  fortunate — the  father  drank  too  much  beer 
— the  mother  was  dead — of  tlie  chik'ren,  two  played 
parts  in  the  theater — juvenile  parts — and  one  was  a 
cripple.  Mrs.  Baxter  took  a  fancy  to  the  little 
cripple,  or  the  child  took  a  fancy  to  her — one  or  the 
other.  But  the  Herr  soon  put  a  stop  to  it ;  and 
soon  the  Eaffs  went  away  to  some  other  theater — I 
know  not  where.  They  were  to  be  pitied,  those 
children  ! " 

"Do  you  know  where  they  are  now?"  I  ask 
eagerly. 

"  I  do  not  know.  The  father  was  a  poor  wretch, 
always  besotted  with  beer.  How  he  kept  his  situa- 
tion in  any  orchestra  I  do  not  know.  But  he  was  a 
good  musician — he  had  talent — it  was  a  thousand 
pities  he  could  not  keep  himself  steady." 

"  The  crippled  child — how  old  was  she  ?  " 

"  Ten  or  eleven,  perhaps  ;  but  she  looked  like  an 
old  woman.  She  fell  through  a  trap  on  the  stage 
and  hurt  her  back — she  was  playing  in  a  Christmas 
pantomime — and  she  never  recovered  from  it.  She 
was  like  a  witch  or  a  monkey.  But  she  loved  Mrs. 
Baxter,  that  child  !  She  loved  her  with  her  whole 
heart  and  soul." 

I  must  find  that  child  ! 

**  C^n  you  not  ^ive  me  any  clew  by  which  I  might 


J'OR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I37 

find  that  family  ?  I  do  not  mind  spending  money 
• — I  have  plenty  of  money.  And  I  would  give  any- 
thing to  see  that  child  ! " 

Mrs.  Haag  stares  at  me.  My  excitement  jfuzzles 
her. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  she  says,  and,  leaving  me  in 
possession  of  her  trim  little  room,  she  goes  down- 
stairs. 

She  is  gone  about  five  minutes,  which  time  I  spend 
gazing  out  between  the  geraniums  on  the  window-  / 
sill  at  my  cabman,  who  stands  beside  his  vehicle  in 
the  narrow  street,  rubbing  his  hands  together  and 
glancing  impatiently  from  time  to  time  at  the  open 
door  below. 

Mrs.  Ilaag  comes  back  at  last. 

"  I  thought  my  neighbor  in  the  next  house  might 
know  the  Raffs'  address — she  too  is  a  German — she 
can  hardly  speak  any  English.  She  says  it  is  a  place 
called  Frigate  Lane — a  very  low  place — she  happen? 
to  know,  because  about  two  months  ago  she  heard 
from  one  of  the  children,  and  she  still  had  the  letter 
by  good  chance,  intending  some  day  to  answer  it." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  I  say  hurriedly,  slipping 
a  note  into  the  woman's  hand — I  say  it  is  for  the 
baby  whom  I  see  asleep  in  the  cradle,  and  turning 
to  leave  the  room,  "  with  all  Hope's  torches  lit  in 
both  my  eyes." 

*'  I  hope  madame  does  not  intend  to  go  to  that 
place,"  the  woman  says,  detaining  me.  "  It  would 
be  no  place  for  madame." 

*'0h,  lam  not  afraid — I  must  go  !"  I  exclaim, 
thinking  of  Ronald  and  Aunt  Rosa,  but  feeling  very 
much  as  a  fox-hunter  must  feel  when  he  hears  the 
"view  halloo."  *'I  dare  not  waste  a  moment;  it 
may  be  a  matter  of  life  and  death ;  but  I  thank  you 
all  the  same  for  your  kindness  ;  perhaps  it  may  be 
ia  my  power  some  day  to  return  it  in  kind," 


I3S  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

The  cabman  closes  the  door  upon  me  with  a  clap 
which  speaks  volumes. 

**  Where  to,  miss  ?" 

*'  To  Number  Nine,  Frigate  Lane." 

I  give  the  address  as  unflinchingly  as  I  can.  It 
is  almost  at  the  other  end  of  the  city — so,  at  least, 
I  judge  from  the  man's  face.  But  he  climbs  to  his 
box  without  entering  any  complaint,  tucks  his  rug 
about  him  leisurely,  and  starts  off  at  a  pace  which 
promises  to  bring  us  there  about  dusk, 

I  have  ample  time  during  my  drive  to  take  in  the 
whole  situation.  It  does  seem  rather  unconven- 
tional that  I  should  be  acting  "^.he  part  of  a  private 
detective  in  such  a  wretchedly  discreditable  business 
as  this  Baxter  case.  I  can  quite  sympathize  with 
my  Cousin  Ronald^s  disapprobation — this  day's  work 
will  bring  his  displeasure  to  a  climax  ;  but  if  he  had 
shown  ten  times  more  disapproval,  nay,  a  hundred 
times,  it  would  not  have  made  any  difference  to  me. 
li/hat  I  can  do  to  save  the  man  I  loved — the  man 
whom,  through  all  my  grief  and  loneliness  and  des- 
peration, I  feel  that  I  love  still  in  every  fiber  of  my 
undisciplined  heart — I  will  do,  if  it  costs  me  not 
only  Ronald  Scott,  but  every  friend  I  have  in  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Whek,  in  the  course  of  time,  and  after  some 
more  or  less  tedious  stoppages  for  the  purpose  of 
inquiring  the  way,  the  cab  finally  comes  to  a  stand- 
still, and  I  let  down  the  window,  I  am  positively 
startled  by  the  extreme  wretchedness  of  the  locality 
in  which  I  find  myself.  So  squalid  is  it  that  I 
shrink  from  the  idea  of  stepping  out  into  the  mud 
and  dirt,  among  the  swarms  of  ragged  children  who 


FOR   LIFE  AND   LOVE.  1 39 

look  as  if  fresh  air  and  soap  and  water  were  alike 
unknown  luxuries.  The  air  is  horrible  to  breathe, 
ragged  clothes,  hung  high  overhead  on  lines  stretch- 
ing across  the  narrow  street,  drip  with  moisture,  the 
sidewalks  are  strewn  with  refuse  of  lish  and  vegeta- 
bles. In  all  my  life  before  I  liave  never  been  in 
such  a  place,  and  my  first  impulse  is  to  turn  my 
back  upon  it  then  and  there.  But  I  think  of  an 
evening  not  very  long  ago,  of  a  faint,  clear,  gold- 
green  sky.  of  a  boy  who  had  promised  to  love  me, 
holding  me  to  his  heart  in  the  starlight  ;  and,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  which  is  almost  a  sob,  I  step  oi;.*" 
of  the  cab.  desiring  the  man  to  wait  for  me  as  be- 
fore,, and  cross  the  muddy  pavement  with  my  silk 
skirt  held  tightly  in  my  hand. 

"Do  the  Raffs  live  here  ?  "  I  ask  of  one  of  the 
wretched-looking  children  who  have  crowded  round 
me. 

*'Yes,'*  the  girl  answers  not  uncivilly;  "they 
live  at  No.  9 — right  at  the  top  of  the  house." 

Standing  in  the  narrow  entry,  I  eye  the  broken 
dirt-begrimed  staircase  dubiously,  winding  upward 
between  walls  the  idea  of  coming  into  contact  with 
which  sends  a  shiidder  through  my  veins,  so  wains- 
coted are  they  by  the  grimy  hands  and  shoulders  of  I 
know  not  how  many  generations  of  ragged  passers  up 
and  down.  But  it  is  for  Gerard  ;  the  thought  nerves 
me  to  encounter  even  the  nameless  horrors  of  that 
ill-lighted  staircase  and  I  know  not  what  further 
dens  of  foul  air  and  wretchedness  to  which  it  leads. 
And,  with  the  further  assurance  that  in  a  few 
minutes  I  shall  have  left  Frigate  Lane  and  all  its 
horrors  behind  me,  I  set  out  on  my  adventurous 
quest. 

It  is  a  long  way  to  the  top  of  the  house.  The 
latter  half  of  the  ascent  is  made  in  almost  total  dark- 
ness J  but  at  last  I  reach  a  narrow  landing  with  three 


I40  FOR  t-lFE  AND  LOVE. 

low  doors  opening  upon  it.  I  knock  at  the  nearest, 
but  receive  no  answer  ,  my  tap  upon  the  next  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  sharp  '^  Come  in  ! " 

I  go  in,  and  am  agreeably  surprised  at  the  neat- 
ness, not  to  say  brightness,  of  the  garret-room. 
There  are  plants  in  the  window,  creeping  plants 
hanging  from  little  wire-baskets,  common  ferns  in 
boxes  covered  with  pine-cones,  a  geranium,  a  pot  of 
musk.  Two  beds  covered  with  clean  patchwork 
quilts  stand  at  one  end  of  the  room  ;  there  are  some 
unframed  pictures  on  the  wall — prints  from  the 
*'  Graphic  "  and  the  ''  Illustrated  News."  But  I  see 
only  one  thing  when  I  open  the  door — a  little  girl 
pausing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  leaning  on 
crutches — a  child  with  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  face, 
with  sharp,  black  eyes,  with  short,  thick,  black  hair 
tied  back  from  her  face  with  a  piece  of  scarlet  woolen 
braid,  with  a  blue  check  pinafore  over  a  very  poor, 
well-patched,  brown  stuff  frock. 

*'Is  your  name  Eaff  ?  "  I  ask,  shrinking  from  the 
gaze  of  those  comprehensive  black  eyes. 

"Yes,"  the  child  answers  warily. 

"I  have  come  from  a  friend  of  yours — Mrs. 
Haag." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,  because  you  knew  a  person 
once  in  whom  I  am  greatly  interested." 

"What  person?" 

"  Mrs.  Baxter.     Do  you  remember  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

*'Do  you  know  where  she  is  now  ?  " 

"She  is  dead." 

My  heart  sinks.  The  child's  face  looks  blank, 
impassive,  stupid  almost. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  she  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Oh,  quite  sure!     Everybody  knows  she  is  dead." 

"^ut  t  happen  to  know  that  she  is  alive." 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  141 

It  is  a  bold  stroke.  The  girl  looks  hard  at  me, 
without  a  change  of  countenance. 

'*  Nobody  knows  that,"  she  says  deliberately. 
"  How  could  they  know  it  ?  " 

"  Because  when  a  person  is  not  known  to  be  dead 
it  is  generally  taken  for  granted  that  he  or  she  is 
alive.'' 

"  But  doesn't  everybody  know  that  Mrs.  Baxter 
is  dead  ?  " 

*'  Do  you  know  it  ?  " 

The  sudden,"  sharp  question  seems  to  stagger  her. 

**I  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  says,  after  a 
moment. 

''  You  were  fond  of  her — were  you  not  ?"  The 
black  eyes  glisten  a  little — whether  with  tears  or 
not  I  cannot  say.  "  You  would  be  glad  to  do  her  a 
service  ?  " 

"You  won't  bribe  me,"  the  girl  says  stoutly. 
'*I  wouldn't  tell  you  anything,  even  if  I  knew." 

*'  Has  anybody  ever  asked  you  anything  about 
her  ?  " 

''Ko — never  I    Why  should  they  ask  me  ?" 

''  Because  you  and  she  were  friends ;  you  might 
know  more  than  other  people." 

"  I  wasn't  there  when  it  happened,"  the  girl  says, 
her  eyes  traveling  to  the  window,  and  resting  there. 

*'  I  am  aware  of  that.  But  if  she  wanted  you, 
she  knew  where  to  find  you." 

The  black  eyes  come  back  to  me  for  an  instant, 
then  go  to  the  window  again. 

•'  What  would  she  want  with  me  ?" 

"  You  might  be  able  to  help  her.  What  is  youi 
name — your  Christian  name  ?  " 

"  Lottie." 

"  Lottie,  if  you  cared  for  any  one,  wouldn't  yoQ 
like  to  do  something  that  would  benefit  them  verj 
much  ?  " 


142  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

She  glances  round  the  poor  room,  leaning  heavily 
on  her  crutches.  But  she  makes  no  answer — does 
not  attempt  to  make  any  answer. 

**  I  am  Lily  Baxter's  friend.  I  want  you  to  be- 
lieve that." 

The  child  turns  her  black  bright  eyes  upon  me, 
scrutinizing  me  from  head  to  foot.  Leaning  on 
one  crutch,  she  stretches  out  her  hand,  and  softly 
strokes  the  fur  on  my  jacket,  as  if  it  were  a  living 
thing,  and  could  feel  pleasure  at  the  touch.  Then 
she  takes  hold  of  my  dress, 

"  Lottie,"  I  exclaim  impatiently,  "you  are  keep- 
ing me  waiting  all  this  time  !  Is  there  nothing  you 
want — nothing  I  could  do  for  you  ?  I  am  very  rich 
• — I  have  a  great  deal  of  money.  If  you  will  tell  me 
where  to  find  Lily  Baxter,  I  will  give  you  money — 
more  than  you  ever  had  in  your  life  !  " 

It  is  an  ungrateful  task  to  me  to  offer  bribes  to 
the  little  creature  whose  loyalty  I  cannot  help  ad- 
miring, though  it  puts  my  own  patience  to  so 
severe  a  test.  But  I  have  a  powerful  incentive,  a 
desperate  object  in  view — the  saving  of  a  life  which 
is  more  dear  to  me  a  thousand  times  than  my  own. 

''Well,  Lottie?" 

Suddenly,  without  any  preamble,  she  bursts  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 

**  Go  away,"  she  sobs  vehemently — "  go  away  out 
of  this  !  I  don't  want  your  money — I  don't  want  you 
here — I  hate  the  sight  of  you  !  " 

**  I  will  not  go  away  till  you  tell  me  where  Lily 
Baxter  is  hiding,"  I  say,  with  determination.  "  I 
came  here  to  find  out,  and  I  will  not  go  away  till 
you  tell  me,  if  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know." 

**  I  think  you  do." 

'*  I  tell  you  she  is  dead." 

"She  is  not  dead.     You  are  telling  a  falsehood. 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  I43 

Lo'itie.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  her — if  she  knew 
ho^v  much  I  wanted  her,  she  would  not  thank  you 
for  not  telling  me — you  are  doing  her  harm  and 
mischief,  and  telling  a  very  wicked  falsehood  be- 
sides." 

The  child  eyes  me,  her  small  pale  face  very 
troubled,  the  tears  hanging  thickly  on  her  long  eye- 
iashes.  I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  drag  her  secret 
from  her  ;  but  there  is  no  other  way  to  come  at  the 
truth — that  is  my  only  excuse." 

"  You  may  trust  me,  Lottie.  I  am  Lily  Baxter's 
friend." 

I  have  taken  one  of  the  small  hard  hands  in  mine  ; 
the  upward  glance  of  the  black  eyes  has  both  cun- 
ning and  hardihood  in  it,  doubtless  born  of  the  ill- 
usage  of  the  world, 

*'  You  won't  hurt  her  if  I  tell  you  ?"  she  says,  at 
last. 

"No  ;  but  I  will  do  her  a  great  deal  of  good." 

Still  she  hesitates,  while  I  hold  my  breath  in  an 
agony  of  suspense. 

"  You  have  a  nice  face,"  she  observes  deliberately. 
**  I  don't  think  you  would  do  her  any  harm.  I  don't 
know  where  she  is  now ;  she  wouldn't  tell  me,  be- 
cause I  might  be  asked,  you  know — but  she  isn't 
dead." 

"  Have  you  no  idea  where  she  is  ? "  I  ask,  my 
heart  sinking  a  little. 

*'  I  know  where  you  could  find  her  if  you  went 
there  to-night." 

"  Where  ?  " 

The  child  names  a  theater  unknown  to  me. 

"  She  dances — in  the  ballet.  She  has  another 
name,  you  know — I  don't  know  it — she  didn't  tell 
me — and  she  looks  different — her  hair  isn't  red  now, 
nor  bright.  She  comes  tc  see  me  sometimes.  Oh, 
I  hope  she  won't  be  angry  with  me  for  telling — if 


144  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

she  never  forgave  me  for  telling  on  her,  wliat  should 
I  do  ?  " 

The  black  eyes  have  clouded  over  with  tears 
lagain.  It  hurts  me  that  I  have  wounded  the  child's 
(conscience,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"She  won't  be  angry  with  you,  Lottie  ;  you  have 
done  her  the  greatest  service  you  ever  did  her  in  your 
life.     Does  anybody — does  your  father — know  ?  " 

*'  Nobody  knows  it  but  me.''  Lottie  nods  her 
black  head. 

"  You  are  a  good  little  friend.  I  wish  I  had  a 
great  many  like  you." 

But  this  is  an  unfortunate  speech,  and  adds  bit- 
terness to  the  sobs  Avhicli  threaten  to  destroy  the 
equilibrium  of  the  poor  Httle  stunted  figure  leaning 
80  heavily  upon  the  old  well-polished  crutches. 

*'  Don't  cry,  Lottie  !  I  am  going  to  be  your  friend 
too.  Tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I  must  hurry 
away  now  ;  but  I  will  come  again  soon  ;  I  won't  for- 
get you.     Would  you  like  that  ?  " 

I  hold  out  a  sovereign  on  the  palm  of  my  glove. 
The  black  eyes  glitter. 

"  Will  you  give  mo  that?" — scanning  my  face 
eagerly. 

*'It  is  for  you." 

She  puts  out  her  hand  and  seizes  it  greedily,  with- 
out a  word  of  thanks.  I  am  disappointed — and  yet 
what  else  could  I  have  expected  to  find  in  Frigate 
lane  ? 

"  What  will  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  We  owe  so  much  rent,"  the  child  says,  her 
voice  sinking  sadly.  ''Father  doesn't  bring  in  any 
money — " 

"  Who  then  keeps  the  house,  Lottie  ?" 

*'  I  and  Gretchen  and  Elsie.  "  Oh,  we  keep  it 
very  well !  But  the  rent  seems  to  collect  so  fast, 
do  what  we  will." 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I45 

**  And  what  do  you  do  ?  "  I  ask,  looking  down  at 
the  brave  little  creature. 

*'  I  make  match-boxes.  I  don't  get  much  for 
them  ;  but  it  is  something.  And  I  can  make  a  great 
many  in  the  long  days,  but  not  so  many  now." 

I  make  my  way  down  the  filthy  staircase  again, 
determined  on  one  thing.  I  will  make  a  friend  of 
Lottie  Eaff.  I  do  not  think  she  is  lavish  of  her 
friendship  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it, would  be  a 
feather  in  my  cap  if  I  might  call  her  my  friend. 

It  is  growing  dark  and  raining  heavily ;  the  cab- 
man is  sitting  wrapped  up  in  an  oilskin  cape  on  the 
box  of  his  vehicle,  too  surly  to  take  any  notice  of 
me  beyond  moviug  on  when  he  calculates  that  I 
have  had  time  to  bestow  myself  inside.  I  lean  back 
against  the  shabby  cushion,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
Can  it  be  that  I  have  found  Lily  I3axter  at  last  ? 
It  seems  too  strange  to  be  true  that  she  has  been 
here  in  London,  quite  close  to  us,  as  one  may  say, 
all  this  time  that  we  have  been  hunting  the  country 
for  her  far  and  wide.  My  heart  swells  with  a  great 
glow  of  triumph.  I  am  glad  it  was  I  who  found  her 
and  not  another — I  am  glad  that  it  is  to  me  Gerard 
Baxter  will  owe  his  liberty,  since  it  was  through 
me — or  so  I  have  always  felt — that  he  sunk  to  so 
low  a  depth  of  misery.  I  wonder,  impatiently, 
what  Eonald  Scott  will  say.  I  am  going  straight  t<F 
him  now  to  tell  him  my  wonderful  news.  He  will 
disbelieve  me  at  first,  probably — not  me,  but  my 
informants.  He  never  was  sanguine,  never,  at  any 
stage  of  the  proceedings.  But  we  can  prove  the 
truth  of  Lottie  Eaff's  story  ;  for  my  own  part  I 
believe  every  word  of  it ;  but  then  I  am  only  a 
woman,  and  not  an  Indian  judge. 

When  I  drive  up  to  the  door  of  the  hotel,  the  win- 
dows are  all  alight,  waiters  are  crossing  the  great 
hall  in  every  direction.     I  tell  the  cabman  to  wait 

IQ 


146  FOR  LIFE   AND   LOVE.  ' 

for  me,  and,  getting  out,  ask  one  of  the  waiters  if 
Sir  Ronald  Scott  is  in  his  rooms.  The  man  stares 
at  me  dubiously. 

"  Did  you  hear  me  ? "  I  exclaim  impatiently. 
*'I  wish  to  see  Sir  Eonald  Scott." 

"  Sir  Konald  Scott  is  at  his  dinner." 

*'  But  I  must  see  him.     Here  is  my  card." 

The  man  takes  the  card  and  stares  at  it,  but 
makes  no  attempt  to  stir. 

"  If  you  call  again  in  an  hour — '*  he  begins. 

**  Take  that  card  to  Sir  Eonald  Scott  this  in- 
stant!" 

"  And  if  he  refuses  to  see  anybody  at  this  hour — " 

"  He  will  not  refuse  to  see  me." 

The  man  walks  av/ay  leisurely — I  fancy  he  ex- 
changes a  glance  of  impertinent  intelligence  with 
some  of  his  fellows  in  the  hall.  While  I  wait,  stand- 
ing in  the  glare  cf  the  gaslight,  I  feel  very  much 
"  out  in  the  cold,"  very  lonely,  very  desolate  even, 
though  I  know  that  I  have  come  here  of  my  own 
free  will,  and  on  another's  business,  not  my  own. 
But  the  sense  of  loneliness  and  isolation  is  new  to 
me  and  unpleasant.  Everybody  else  seems  at  home, 
busy,  preoccupied,  while  1  stand  looking  out  at  the 
passengers  hurrying  along  the  wet  glistening  pave- 
ment, at  the  carriages  driving  past  with  their  bright 
lights  and  well-muffled  occupants,  at  the  ever- 
changing  panorama  of  the  busy  lamplit  street,  feel- 
ing strangely  odd  and  solitary,  and  as  if  I  belonged 
to  nobody  and  had  nobody  belonging  to  me. 

But  I  am  not  waiting  very  long  in  reality  before 
Ronald  himself  comes  hurrying  down  the  staircase 
in  full  evening-dress,  and  with  a  very  shocked,  not 
to  say  angry  face.  But  I  do  not  care  about  the 
shocked  look — I  am  so  glad  to  see  him.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  the  waiters,  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
thrown  myself  into  his  arms. 


FOR   LIFE  AND   LOVE.  I47 

"  Ronald,  you  need  not  look  frightened — there  is 
nothing  the  matter.  It  was  only  that  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  about — about — that  business." 

Ronald  frowns. 

'*  I  thought  you  went  down  to  Woodhay  to-day, 
Rosalie." 

' '  I  intended  to  go  down  ;  but  I  found  I  could 
not  leave  town." 

"  Rosalie,  you  ought  to  go  home,  dear.  Will  you 
let  me  take  you  back  to  Carleton  Street  now — at 
once  ?  " 

"  But  your  dinner,  Ronald — " 

"It  is  no  matter  about  my  dinner " — smiling. 
*'  Child,  you  ought  not  to  do  these  things,  to  be  out 
alone  at  this  hour.  I  cannot  have  you  do  it ;  I  am 
very  angry  with  you." 

"  But,  Ronald,"  I  exclaim,  eagerly,  "  I  have  a 
wonderful  thing  to  tell  you  !     I  have — " 

The  hall  is  crowded  with  waiters,  coming  and 
going. 

"I  will  drive  back  with  you  to  Carleton  Street," 
Ronald  says  peremptorily,  and  puts  me  into  the  cab. 
Then  he  hurries  in  for  hat  and  overcoat,  and  in  three 
minutes  is  sitting  opposite  'to  me  while  we  drive 
slowly  through  the  crowded  noisy  lamplit  streets. 

"Ronald,  I  have  found  Lily  Baxter." 

"  Found  her  ! " 

"  That  is,  I  know  where  to  find  her." 

"Oh,"  Ronald  says,  less  excitedly,  "that  is  a  very 
different  thing." 

"  Oh,  but,  Ronald,  I  am  sure  we  have  found  her 
this  time  ! "  And  then  I  proceed  to  tell  him  my 
adventures,  to  which  he  listens  with  an  exceedingly 
grave  face.  And  when  I  have  finished,  instead  of 
commending  me,  he  merely  says — 

"Rosalie,  you  must  promise  me  never  to  do  such 
a  thing  as  this  again." 


I4B  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**  Oh,Ronald,don't  worry  about  me;  I'm  all  right!'* 

"  No,  you  are  all  wrong,"  he  says,  and  then  and 
there  gives  me  a  lecture  the  like  of  which  I,  Allie 
Somers  Scott  of  Woodhay,  have  certainly  never  re- 
ceived before  in  my  life,  because  there  was  nobody 
who  would  dare  to  give  it  to  me. 

And  all  the  time  that  he  is  scolding  me — if  such 
grave  disapprobation  of  my  conduct  can  be  called 
scolding — I  cannot  help  thinking  how  nice  he  looks, 
how  brave  and  stern  and  tender,  and  how  pleasant 
it  would  be  for  a  Avoman  to  have  such  a  man  as 
Ronald  Scott  to  take  care  of  her  always,  and  to  see 
that  she  did  what  was  proper  and  right.  And  I 
Buppose  my  thoughts  are  written  in  my  face,  for 
suddenly  Ronald,  who  is  looking  straight  into  my 
eyes,  smiles  a  little. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  listening  to  me,  Rosalie.'* 

*'l  am  thinking  that  it  is  rather  nice  to  have  you 
Bcold  me.  Cousin  Ronald." 

"  But  T  want  you  to  think  of  the  scolding,  not  of 
me." 

**  If  you  want  me  to  say  that  I  am  sorry  for  what 
I  have  done,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  not  sorry, 
but  glad — glad  and  thankful  to  have  been  able  to 
do  so  much." 

"  But  you  could  have  done  it  as  well  with  me, 
Rosalie." 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  that." 

"But  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  And  now,  Ronald,  I  want  you  to  take  me  to 
this  theater  to-night." 

*^That  I  certainly  will  not  do,  Rosalie." 

**  Then  I  must  go  alone." 

'*  You  shall  not  go  alone,  or  at  all.  It  is  not  a 
place  for  you  to  go  to — it  is  one  of  the  last  places  iu 
London  at  which  I  should  wij;h  to  see  you,  or  any 
one  belonging  to  me." 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  I49 

"Ronald,  I  am  not  a  child  or  a  baby  !  " 
"  You  are  a  lady,   Rosalie,   and  my  cousin,  and 
nothing — nothing — would  induce   me  to  take  you 
there." 

"  Is  it  such  a  dreadful  place  ?  "  I  ask  vaguely, 
thinking  of  Gerard's  wife. 

'*'  It  is  not  fit  for  you  to  go  to,  Rosalie." 
"  But  I  must  find  her — and  there  seems  to  be  no 
other  way." 

*'  I  will  send  a  detective  there  to-morrow." 
"  But  to-morrow — " 

*'  If  she  is  there  to-night,  she   will  be  there  to- 
morrow night." 

"  But  if  they  frighten  her  away,  Ronald  ?  " 
"  I  can  go  there  to-night,  if  you  wish,"  Ronald 
says,  looking  at  his  watch.  *'  We  were  going  to  hear 
Albani,  I  and  a  fellow  I  knew  in  Scinde  ;  but,  if  it 
will  make  your  mind  easy,  I  will  change  my  coat  and 
go  to  this  place  instead." 

"Dear  Ronald,  if  you  would  !  " 
*'  Then  I  will,"  he  says,  smiling  again. 
"  Dear  cousin,  how  shall  I  thank  you  ?  " 
"By  not  thanking  me  at  all,  Rosalie." 
He  stares  out  of  the  window,  as  if  he  had  never 
eeen  lighted  streets  before,  while  I  look  at  his  grave 
profile  and  wonder  if  he  thinks  me  a  miserable  spoil- 
sport.    1  have  spoiled  his  pleasant  evening,  at  all 
events.     I  am  sure  he  hates  the  idea  of  going  to  this 
low  fourth  or  fifth  rate  theater  at  the  other  side  of 
the  city. 

"Do  you  think  you  will  recognize  her,  Ronald  ? " 
"  I  suppose  I  shall,  from  the  description  you  have 
given  me,  and  her  photograph." 

"  I  should  recognize  her  among  a  thousand,"  I  say, 
sighing.     But  Ronald  is  immovable,  and  I  do  not 
pres8  the  point. 
^'  You  say  she  has  changed  the  color  of  her  liapir  ?" 


I50  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

"  Yes — dyed  it,  I  suppose.     It  will  alter  her  ap- 

pe<arance  a  good  deal." 

"  So  I  should  suppose." 

The  silence  lasts  till  we  reach  Carleton  Street. 

*'  Take  care  of  yourself  in  those  outlandish  places, 
Ronald/'  I  say,  with  rather  tardy  concern,  as  he 
wishes  rae  good  night, 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,"  he  laughs  carelessly.  *' I 
have  come  to  too  many  cross-roads  not  to  be  able  to 
take  care  of  myself." 

*' And  when  will  you  let  me  know  ?" 

"  Early  to-morrow.  You  are  going  home  to- 
morrow ?" 

"  That  must  depend  upon  what  you  find  out  to- 
night." 

"  You  must  go  home,  Rosalie.  I  shall  go  down 
with  you  to  Woodhay  to-morrow." 

*'  Very  well.  But  you  must  first  bring  Gerard 
Baxter  here  to  me." 

He  winces  a  little,  turning  his  head  away.  I  look 
up  at  him  as  he  stands  in  the  dim  light  of  the  gas- 
jet,  buttoned  up  in  his  long  light-colored  coat,  hia 
hat  in  his  hand.  There  is  something  very  noble  about 
this  grave  cousin  of  mine,  something  calm  and  cool 
and  steadfast, which  recommends  itself  to  my  careless 
fancy,  engrossed  as  it  is  by  other  things. 

"  Good  night,"  he  says  coldly. 

*'  Good  night,"  I  echo,  vaguely  ;  and  he  is  gone. 

I  hope  I  have  not  sent  him  into  any  danger.  I 
hope  he  will  not  get  into  any  row  in  that  wretched 
theater  to-night.  Half  the  night  I  lie  awake,  think- 
ing of  him  and  of  Gerard  Baxter,  and  of  what  the 
morrow  may  bring  forth,  my  heart  throbbing  and 
my  head  in  a  whirl  of  suspense  and  dread  of  I  know 
not  what.  A  thousand  nameless  terrors  and  con- 
jectures flit  through  my  brain.  What  if  Lily  Baxter 
should  escape  us  at  this  last   momcAt !    What   if 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LoVfi.  Igt 

that  child  has  outwitted  me — put  u.?  on  a  wrong 
scent  altogether  ?  But  over  and  above  all  is  the 
glad  triumphant  consciousness,  the  hope  that  will 
not  be  put  down,  that  to-morrow,  through  my  in- 
strumentality, Gerard  Baxter  may  be  free. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

"Well,  Eonald  ?" 

I  have  started  up  to  meet  him,  the  terrible  sus- 
pense of  the  night  and  morning  showing  itself  in  my 
white  face  and  shaking  limbs. 

**  I  have  found  her,  Rosalie." 

I  cover  my  eyes  with  my  hands  in  a  passion  of 
thankfulness, 

"  And  Gerard  Baxter  ?  " 

"  This  evening  Gerard  Baxter  will  be  at  liberty.** 

"  He  does  not  know  yet  ?  " 

"  No  "  —  curtly. 

I  stand  by  the  table,  leaning  my  hand  upon  it, 
Ronald  Soott  opposite  tome,  watching  my  face  with 
curious  intentness. 

"Did  you  recognize  hor  at  once  ?" 

**  No,  not  at  once.  But  I  saw  her  afterward- 
coming  out  of  the  theater  ;  and  then  I  recognized 
her." 

**  Did  you  speak  to  her  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  "Was  she  frightened  ?" 

**  Not  in  the  very  least." 

"But  did  she  intend  to  let  liiin  die,  Ronald  ?'* 

"No.     At  least,  she  says  so  now." 

"  And  you  believe  her  ?  '* 

"  She  is  nothing  but  a  foolish,  giddy  child.  lam 
only  surprised  that  she  was  clever  enough  to  bafile 


1$2  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfi. 

US  all  as  she  did.  She  intended  to  punish  him,  sho 
said.  He  had  suspected  her  of  horrid  things,  and 
she  meant  to  be  even  with  him.  She  never  meant 
to  let  the  trial  come  on — so  she  said.  She  pretended 
to  know  nothing  about  her  husband  at  first — not 
even  that  he  had  been  suspected  of  making  away 
with  her  ;  but  I  soon  let  her  see  that  she  could  not 
make  a  fool  of  me," 

"And  she  allowed  him  to  lie  in  prison  all  this 
time,  knowing — " 

"She  seemed  to  think  it  rather  a  good  joke," 
Eonald  says,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  I  tell  you 
she  has  scarcely  any  notion  of  right  or  wrong — she 
looks  a  mere  child,  and  a  more  ignorant,  uneducated, 
utterly  thoughtless  child  there  could  scarcely  be.  I 
never  saw  such  hardihood  in  my  life — the  idea  of  the 
body  that  was  found  having  been  identified  as  her 
body  seems  to  liave  been  the  greatest  source  of 
amusement  to  her — she  could  not  speak  of  it  without 
laughing." 

"  Did  her  mother  know  ?" 

"She  knows  nothing  about  her  mother.  I  believe 
she  dislikes  the  woman  excessively — and  one  can 
scarcely  wonder  at  it." 

"  She  is  very  pretty,  is  she  not  ?  "  1  ask,  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  She  has  a  most  beautiful  face." 

"  You  admire  her  ?  " 

"  No  man  can  look  at  her  without  admiring  her.** 

If  I  sigh,  Eonald  Scott  does  not  hear  me. 

"  What  will  you  do  about  Gerard  Baxter  ?  "  I  in- 
quire, after  a  pause. 

"  1  am  going  for  the  girl  now,  to  take  her  before 
the  authorities." 

*'If  she  should  have  run  away,  Ronald  ?" 

"  My  dear  Hosalio,  you  must  think  me  a  very 
simple  person  1    I  took  care  to  put  the  house  where 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I53 

she  lodges  under  the  surveillance  of  the  police.  But 
I  do  not  think  she  has  any  intention  of  running 
away." 

"Did  she  wonder  how  you  discovered  her  ?" 

**  She  did  not  ask  me  any  questions,  and  I  vol- 
unteered no  information  ;  I  think  myself,  slie  was 
rather  surprised  that  we  had  not  found  her  before.'* 

**  Can  she  be  punished  in  any  way  ?  " 

"I  think  not.  She  is  so  young,  you  know  ;  and 
she  will  say  she  knew  nothing  about  her  husband's 
detention  in  prison.'' 

"  Eonald,"  I  ask,  in  the  same  hesitating  way  in 
which  I  had  asked  another  question,  ''do  you  think 
she  cares  at  all  for  him  ?  " 

*'I  am  sure  she  does." 

I  did  not  know  whether  the  answer  pleases  me  or 
displeases  me  ;  but  I  pul  my  hand  to  my  heart. 

"Go!"  I  exclaim  hurriedly.  "Don't  lose  any 
more  precious  time  ;  and,  when  Gerard  Baxter  is  at 
liberty,  send  him  here  to  me." 

Eonald's  face  darkens  ;  but  he  merely  says — 

"And  you  will  allow  me  to  take  you  down  to 
Woodhay  this  evening,  Kosalie  ?  " 

"When  I  have  seen  him." 

He  goes  away  then  ;  and,  for  the  next  hour  and 
a  half,  I  walk  up  and  down  the  room  in  uncontrolla- 
ble excitement.  I  cannot  sit  still — every  sound 
startles  me,  every  passing  cab  draws  me  to  the  win- 
dow, every  voice  down-stairs  causes  my  heart  to  beat 
BO  tumultuously  that  I  wonder  how  it  can  bear  the 
strain.  Twenty  times  I  look  at  my  watch — how 
slow  the  minutes  drag  ! — it  is  not  one  o'clock  yet ; 
and  yet  I  feel  that  I  have  endured  an  eternity  of 
suspense  since  Konald  Scott  left  the  house  at  eleven. 
The  cool,  autumnal  sunshine  slants  into  the  room, 
creeps  across  the  colorless  carpet,  lies  on  the  familiar 
|)ictures,   on  the  faded  table-cloth;,  on  the  silver 


154  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

clasps  of  my  fur  cloak  as  it  hangs  over  the  back  of 
a  chair,  on  the  dead  dry  grasses  in  the  vases  on  the 
mantel-piece.  How  weary  I  am  of  them  all,  how  I 
hate  the  sight  of  tiiem,  and  of  my  own  ghastly  face 
in  the  glass  !  1  see  it  every  time  I  turn  in  my  rest- 
less passing  to  and  fro — a  white  face,  with  dark 
shadows  under  the  distended  eyes,  with  contracted 
brows,  with  pale  trembling  lips  that  look  as  if  they 
could  never  smile  again.  Can  this  haggard  woman 
really  be  Allie  Scott — the  girl  who  used  to  laugh, 
sitting  over  the  fire  with  Olive  Dcane,  who  used  to 
sing  ''  In  my  Chateau  of  Pompernik  "  and  "Nancy 
Lee,"  in  such  a  gay  rollicking  voice,  who  used  to 
lounge  in  that  hammock-chair,  eating  almonds  and 
raisins  and  dreaming  dreams  of  a  boy  up-stairs  paint- 
ing away  in  a  shabby  velveteen  coat,  who  had  thought 
it  such  a  terrible  thing  to  have  been  found  out  in 
the  unsolicited  gift  of  a  bunch  of  violets  ?  I  can 
scarcely  believe  in  my  own  identity  when  I  look  at 
that  ghostly  face  which  seems  to  grow  more  ghostly 
with  every  loud  monotonous  tick  of  the  old  clock  on 
the  landing,  with  every  step  that  passes  by  the  door 
— that  passes  and  does  not  come  in. 

Another  hour  passes — two  hours.  Mrs.  Wauchope 
comes  up  with  my  luncheon,  and  carries  it  away 
again  untasted  ;  a  telegram  arrives  from  Uncle  Tod 
to  say  that  the  carriage  has  been  sent  to  meet  me  ; 
but  the  carriage  may  go  back  again,  for  I  am  late 
for  that  train  already.  I  am  beginning  to  feel  that 
I  cannot  bear  this  terrible  strain  on  brain  and  heart 
any  longer,  when  the  door  opens,  quickly,  is  quickly 
closed  again,  and  I  turn  round,  to  find  Gerard  Baxter 
standing  just  inside  the  room,  looking  at  me. 

With  a  low  exclamation,  I  hold  out  both  my  hands. 
He  starts  forward,  and,  seizing  them,  falls  upon  his 
knees  at  my  feet. 
,     For  a  moment  r^either  of  us  speaks.     He  has 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  155 

buried  his  face  in  my  dress  and  is  sobbing  heavily, 
while  1  hold  both  his  hands  in  a  close  hard  grasp, 
shivering  as  if  I  had  the  ague. 

"  Gerard,"  I  say  at  last— "Gerard." 

Still  he  sobs  on,  like  a  heartbroken  child  who  ha3 
wearied  himself  out  with  sobbing. 

*'  Gerard,  you  are  killing  me.  It  is  all  over  now, 
dear  ;  you  must  not  give  way,  for  both  our  sakes  ! " 

He  raises  his  tear-swollen  face — that  face  which 
seems  to  me  but  the  ghost  of  its  former  self,  so  gaunt, 
BO  haggard  is  it. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life — I  would  thank  you  for 
it,  if  I  could  speak  ;  but  I  cannot  speak  ! " 

"  Do  not  try  to  thank  me,  dear,"  I  say,  with  stiff 
lips  that  almost  refuse  to  form  the  words.  "  It  was 
all  my  fault — I  know- it ;  but  it  is  all  over  now." 

He  looks  up  at  me  with  drowned  eyes,  with  pite- 
ous lips  that  tremble  like  my  own. 

*'  And  I  do  not  care  to  live.  It  would  have  been 
better  for  me  if  I  had  died." 

"  But  you  must  care  to  live.  Why  should  you 
not  care  to  live,  Gerard  ?  The  world  is  before  you — 
yoii  are  young  ;  it  is  only  cowards  who  wish  to  die  !  '* 

He  makes  no  answer,  but  kneels  there  looking  up 
at  me,  his  cheeks  wet  with  tears  ;  and,  though  I 
speak  so  bravely,  I  myself  am  trembling  exceed- 
ingly ;  my  hands  are  as  cold  as  ice,  though  my  cheeks 
burn. 

"You  shall  go  to  Italy,  Gerard  ;  you  shall  study 
in  Home  and  Florence  ;  you  shall  make  a  name  for 
yourself  and  do  me  credit — I  who  am  your  friend." 

His  haggard  young  face  brightens  a  little,  but 
only  a  very  little. 

"  It  could  not  be  done.  I  am  a  beggar  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  Allie — twice  beggared  now." 

"  But  I  am  rich — you  forget  that  !  " 

He  shakes  his  head,  with  the  old  obstinate  gesture. 


156  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVfi. 

"But  listen.  When  you  are  a  great  artist,  you 
shall  pay  me  back — with  interest,  if  you  like." 

He  smiles  faintly  at  that ;  we  both  smile,  he  look- 
ing up  and  I  looking  down. 

"  But  that  wretched  child  !  "  he  says  at  last. 

'*  I  will  take  care  of  her  for  you,  Gerard." 

"  You  ! " 

**  Yes.  She  shall  live  with  me  at  Woodhay  while 
you  are  away."- 

"  With  you,  Allie  ?  " 

"  With  me.  And,  when  you  have  grown  rich, 
you  shall  come  for  her — in  two  or  three  years  per- 
haps, if  you  work  very  hard." 

He  shudders,  still  kneeling  beside  me,  still  hold- 
ing both  my  hands  against  his  breast. 

"  Have  you  forgiven  me,  Allie  ?  " 

*'  Entirely.  I  wish  I  could  as  easily  forgive  my- 
self." 

He  bends  his  head  and  kisses  my  hands  passion- 
ately one  after  the  other. 

"  How  can  you  tell  me  to  live — I  who  have  lost 
the  only  thing  worth  living  for  in  the  world  ?  " 

Looking  down  into  the  boyish,  careworn  face,  re- 
membering all  his  love  for  me,  all  that  he  has  suf- 
fered through  that  love,  a  great  flood  of  pity  surges 
through  my  heart. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  I  say,  smoothing  the  dark  hair 
back  from  his  forehead — "  my  poor  boy  I  " 

"  Can  you  care  for  me  still,  Allie — a  miserable 
wretch  like  me  ?  " 

'*  I  shall  care  for  you  always,  Gerard — always  !  " 

"  As  you  cared  for  me  once,  Allie  ?  " 

For  a  moment  I  hesitate,  with  the  hungry  hollow 
dark  eyes  devouring  my  face. 

*'  As  I  might  care  for  a  dear  brother,  if  I  had  one, 
Gerard." 

He  stands  up,  flinging  away  my  hand. 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  1 57 

"  Is  that  all  ?  " 

"That  must  be  all." 

**  And  you  can  mete  out  your  affection  to  such  a 
nicety  as  that  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so — with  the  help  of  Heaven  !  " 

"  I  cannot  !  "  he  exclaims  roughly.  *'  I  have  not 
my  feelings  so  admirably  under  control — I  cannot 
love  you  like  a  lover  one  day,  and  like  a  brother  the 
next!" 

"  We  can  never  be  anything  but  friends,  Gerard  ; 
but  I  shall  always  be  your  friend — your  best  of 
friends." 

**  And  I  shall  be  your  lover,"  he  says  passionately 
— ''your  lover,  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  You  may  think  so  now,"  I  answer  quietly,  but 
my  heart  rebels  against  the  bitter  fate  that  has 
divided  us. 

*'  I  know  it ;  and  I  glory  in  the  knowledge.  I 
love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul — as  I  shall 
never  love  any  other  woman.  And  now  is  it  any 
wonder  that  I  do  not  greatly  care  to  live  ?  " 

*'  You  must  go  away,"  I  say,  putting  my  hand  to 
my  forehead.     "You  must  go  away." 

"  My  darling,  I  have  wearied  you — you  look  like 
a  ghost ! "  he  exclaims,  with  a  penitence  as  passion- 
ate as  his  anger  had  been  a  moment  before.  "I 
will  go  away — I  will  do  anything  you  ask  me.  Oh, 
my  darling,  my  darling,  you  do  not  know  the 
anguish  it  is  to  me  to  leave  you  this  day  ! " 

He  has  turned  away  from  me  ;  there  is  a  look  of 
litter  misery  in  the  gaunt  young  face,  in  the  wild 
dark  eyes.  I  am  afraid  of  him — afraid  that  he  will 
do  some  desperate  thing,  perhaps,  in  his  despair. 

"Gerard,  if  you  love  me,  you  will  promise  to  do 
what  I  ask  you." 

*' If  Hove  you,  Allie?" 

**You  will  go  away — at  once — to  Italy — to  Borne. 


158  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

You  will  start  to-morrow — I  will  give  you  a  check 
on  my  bankers — to  be  repaid,  when  you  come  back. 
Gerard,  you  have  brought  suffering  upon  me  too — 
you  owe  it  to  me  to  make  this  reparation — it  is  all 
I  ask  of  you — or  will  ever  ask  perhaps.  And  you 
owe  it  to  your  wile." 

**  Do  not  speak  of  her." 

*'  But  I  must  speak  of  her.  The  child  loves  you- 
Gerard." 

"■  So  much  the  worse  for  her.*' 

"  Yes,  unless  you  prove  yourself  worthy  of  her 
love." 

"Of  her  love,  Allie?" 

*'  It  is  the  only  love  that  can  rightly  belong  to 
you  now.  And  it  is  a  precious  gift,  Gerard — even 
the  love  of  a  child." 

He  turns  away  impatiently. 

"  Gerard,  will  you  do  this — for  my  sake  ?  " 

**  If  you  asked  me  to  lay  down  my  life  for  you, 
Allie,  I  would  do  it." 

"  And  you  will  go  at  once  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  like.  I  do  not  care  what  becomes 
of  me." 

"  Dear  Gerard,  do  not  speak  like  that.  It  breaks 
my  heart  to  hear  you." 

**  My  heart  is  broken,"  he  says,  letting  his  head 
sink  upon  his  breast. 

"  I  hope  not,"  I  answer,  with  a  poor  attempt  at  a 
smile.  And  then  I  fill  in  the  check  for  him  with  a 
hand  that  shakes  a  good  deal — a  check  for  a  hundred 

Jounds.  "  You  may  write  to  me  from  Italy.  And 
will  write  to  you — to  tell  you  about  your  wife." 
He  kisses  my  hand  passionately,  looks  at  my  face 
with  eyes  which  seem  as  if  they  were  trying  to  take 
away  a  memory  which  must  last  them  through 
eternity,  and  then,  without  another  word,  he  goes 
away. 


tOk  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I  §9 

And  I  throw  myself  face  downward  on  Mrs.  Wau- 
chope's  drab  moreen  sofa  and  cry  for  two  long  hours 
as  if  my  heart  would  break. 

"We  are  rushing  along  through  the  darkness,  my 
cousin  Eonald  Scott  and  I,  as  fast  as  the  express 
train  can  carry  us.  Eonald  is  leaning  back  against 
the  cushions  opposite  to  me,  his  tweed  cap  pulled 
well  down  over  his  eyes.  I  am  sure  he  is  not  asleep, 
though  he  sits  there  so  quietly;  but  I  see  his  eyes 
in  the  shadow — the  lamp  over  our  heads  gives  such 
a  miserable  glimmer  of  light.  We  have  been  travel- 
ing for  nearly  two  hours  now — in  another  hour  we 
shall  have  reached  the  nearest  railway-station  to 
Yattenden,  where  the  carriage  from  Woodhay  will 
be  waiting  for  us.  We  have  scarcely  addressed  each 
other  during  the  whole  of  those  two  hours.  Eonald 
does  not  seem  inclined  to  talk,  and  I  feel  too 
wretched  to  do  anything  but  brood  over  my  misery, 
staring  into  the  darkness  with  wide-open  miserable 
eyes. 

''  Are  you  very  tired,  Eosalie  ?  " 

Eonald's  voice  startles  me,  the  silence  between  us 
has  lasted  so  long. 

'*  Eather.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  looked  tired." 

"  Have  you  been  studying  my  face  ?  " — a  little 
querulously. 

"  One  cannot  very  well  help  seeing  what  is  straight 
before  one." 

*'  I  thought  your  eyes  were  shut,"  I  say,  remem- 
bering how  I  had  studied  all  that  was  visible  of  his 
calm  grave  face  a  while  ago,  wondering  what  he 
thought  of  me. 

"  They  were  not  shut.  What  were  you  trying  to 
find  out  just  now  ?  " 

*<  When  ?  "  I  ask,  though  I  know  very  well. 


l6o  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOV£. 

*'  When  you  did  me  the  honor  to  consider  me  to 
intently." 

I  was  trying  to  find  out  what  you  thought  of  me, 
Ronald." 

"And  did  you  find  out  ?" 

"  Not  much.  You  have  one  of  those  faces,  which 
I  cannot  read." 

"  Then  I  have  the  advantage  of  you  there/* 

"  Can  you  read  my  face  ?  " 

"Very  often  I  can,"  he  answers,  smiling  a  little. 

*'You  have  an  interesting  study,  then" — shrug- 
ging my  shoulders. 

"  I  think  I  have.  Eosalie,  would  you  like  to  know 
what  I  think  of  you  ?  " 

"I  know  you  think  me  very  foolish." 

**  Then  you  do  not  want  to  know  ?  " 

*'  You  could  not  tell  me  anything  pleasant " — with 
a  rather  forced  laugh.  "  I  wish  we  were  at  Yatten- 
den,  Ronald  ;  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,  for  your  sake.  Rosalie,  are  you  to  see  that 
fellow  Baxter  again  ?  " 

The  name  sends  a  shiver  through  my  veins.  And 
yet  it  is  forever  ringing  in  my  ears. 

"  No.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  says,  without  answer- 
iag  my  question. 

"Why  are  you  glad  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  neither  good  for  you  nor  for  him." 

I  should  be  angry  if  Roland  did  not  look  so  grave, 
did  not  speak  in  such  a  matter-of-fact,  fatherly  way. 

"  He  is  going  to  Italy,"  I  say,  in  rather  a  subdued 
voice. 

"And  you  have  taken  charge  of  his  wife." 

*'Yes.*^ 

Ronald  expresses  neither  approval  nor  disapproval. 
I  wonder  if  he  despises  me — if  he  thinks  that  I  am 
breaking  my  heart  about  a  lad  who  by  all  accounts 


JfOR  LiFfe  ANb  LOVfi.  l6t 

could  not  have  cared  very  much  for  me  ?  I  am 
almost  sorry  I,  like  a  coward,  refused  to  let  him  tell 
me  what  he  thought  of  me  just  now.  But  I  had 
shrunk  from  another  lecture,  knowing  the  folly  and 
wickedness  of  my  undisciplined  heart. 

"  Ronald,  you  have  redeemed  your  promise  nobly," 
I  say,  stretching  out  my  hand  to  him  in  my  old  im- 
pulsive  fashion.  "^  You  have  been  a  true  friend  to 
me  ;  you  have  borne  with  me  very  patiently  :.  do  not 
think  too  badly  of  me,  if  you  can  help  it." 

He  bends  forward  out  of  the  shadow  to  take  my 
hand. 

■**  All  my  eiiorts  must  be  directed  the  other  way, 
Rosalie,"  he  answers  quietly,  looking  at  me  with 
brown  eyes,  which  for  once  I  cannot  fail  to  read. 
But  I  shake  my  head,  laughing  a  little. 

"  '  I  warrant  I  love  you  more  than  you  do  me  ! '  ** 
I  quote,  drawing  my  hand  away  rather  quickly. 

And  we  say  no  more  till  the  train  stops,  and  I  see 
my  own  carriage-lamps  glimmer  in  the  darkness,  and 
my  own  livery  on  the  platform ;  and  I  ask  if  they 
are  all  well  at  Yattenden,  and  am  told  that  they  are 
all  well,  but  very  uneasy  because  I  had  not  come 
down  by  the  earlier  train. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Isn't  he  a  jolly  little  fellow,  Olive  ?  " 

Olive  glances  at  the  cherub-faced  boy  on  my  lap, 
whom  I  have  been  smothering  with  kisses. 

**He  is  a  fine  child,  certainly." 

*'  A  fine  child  !  "  I  exclaim  with  laughing  indigna- 
tion.    **  You  speak  of  him  as  if  he  were  some  young 
creature  whom  you  were  fattening  for  a  prize." 
W 


1 62  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

Olive  glances  at  us  from  her  low  chair  inside  the 
window.  I  am  sitting  on  the  steps  just  outside, 
holding  the  sturdy,  two-year-old  boy  in  my  arms. 
September  sunshine  makes  glorious  the  ruddy  gables 
of  my  old  house,  rising  sharply  defined  against  the 
serene  blue  sky  ;  September  sunshine  dreams  on  the 
smooth  terrace,  on  the  trim  walks  and  careful  flower- 
beds of  my  sheltered  garden,  just  as  it  dreamed 
upon  them  three  years  ago,  when  my  sick  eyes  saw 
no  beauty  in  them,  nor  in  the  sunshine,  nor  in  any 
other  fair  or  lovely  thing. 

*' You  will  spoil  him,  AUie,"  Olive  says  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  she  smiles  indulgently. 

"  Spoil  him  !  You  are  not  capable  of  being  spoiled, 
Scott ;  are  you  ?  You  take  after  your  godmother, 
my  fair  child  !  As  if  anybody  could  spoil  such  a 
darling,  Olive  !  Whv,  the  nicest  thing  I  could  say 
of  him  wouldn't  be  half  nice  enough  ! " 

"  Not  half  nice  'nough  !  "  Scott  corroborates,  in  a 
perfect  tempest  of  chuckles. 

"  You  delicious  little  mite  ! "  I  laugh  encourag- 
ingly, kissing  his  rosebud  mouth,  his  bloomy  cheeks, 
his  dimpled  elbows,  whilst  he  makes  vain  snatches 
at  my  hair,  at  my  ear-ringc,  at  my  nose  even,  with 
his  chubby  dimpled  fists.  "  Why,  Olive,  if  1  were 
you  I  should  do  nothing  but  kiss  him  all  daylong  !  '* 

"I  wonder  what  would  become  of  Hyacinth  and 
the  vicarage,  and  the  parish  generally,  if  I  made 
euch  a  goose  of  myself  ?  "  Olive  says  demurely. 

I  take  great  delight  in  spoiling  my  little  godson, 
artly  because  he  is  such  a  splendid  little  fellow, 
ut  principally  because  it  is  so  amusing  to  hear 
Olive  protesting  against  it.  She  has  grown  so  deli- 
ciously  matter-of-fact  since  she  married  Mr.  Lock- 
hart  !  Three  years  have  transformed  her  from  a 
Bcatter-brained  girl  into  the  most  amusingly  demure 
matron  who  ever  pretended  not  to  adore  her  hua* 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  163 

band,  or  to  think  her  children  the  most  perfect  chil- 
dren that  ever  were  born." 

"I  wonder  how  you  will  bring  up  your  own  children 
one  of  these  days,"  Olive  observes  in  her  precise 
voice,  glancing  at  me  over  the  pinafore  she  is  em- 
broidering. 

"  I  shall  never  have  any  children  to  bring  up.  I 
shall  bo  a  rich  old  spinster,  and  Scott  shall  be  my 
adopted  son,  and  I  will  leave  Woodhay  to  him  when 
I  die,  and  he  shall  take  the  name  of  Scott — Scott 
Lockhart  Scott.     Doesn't  it  sound  well,  Olive  ?" 

*'  It  sounds  well  enough,"  Olive  says  smiling. 

*'  But  you  don't  think  it  will  ever  come  to  pass  ?*' 

*'I  hope  it  will  never  come  to  pass." 

*'  You  hope  your  son  won't  have  Woodhay,  Olive?  " 

"  I  hope  your  own  son  will  have  Woodhay,  Allie. 
You  have  done  enough  for  Scott  already." 

"  By  presenting  him  with  an  ugly  silver  mug  the 
day  he  was  christened  ! " 

Olive  shakes  her  head,  denuded  of  its  golden 
fringe  now,  with  sleek  golden  braids  drawn  back 
plainly  from  her  forehead  instead,  and  plaited  neatly 
at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"  My  dear  Allie,  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  of 
your  living  the  cheerless  life  you  have  mapped  out 
for  yourself.  It  seems  all  very  well  now,  while  you 
are  young  and  have  plenty  of  friends.  But  think 
how  lonely  you  would  feel  by  and  by  when  you 
begin  to  grow  old,  without  husband  or  children  to 
care  for  you — with  nobody  in  the  world  who  really 
loved  you,  perhaps,  as  a  wife  and  mother  is  sure  to 
be  loved  ! " 

If  I  sigh,  Olive  does  not  hear  me,  though  her 
pink  ears  are  sharp  enough. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  resigned  to  my  fate  this 
long  time  back,"  I  say  carelessly,  pulling  one  of 
Scott's  elastic  curls  straight  and  then  letting  it  run 


164  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  < 

into  glossy  flaxen  spirals  again  ;  "  and,  after  all,  it 
is  not  such  a  very  terrible  thing  to  be  an  old  maid." 

*'  I  think  it  is  a  terrible  thing,"  Olive  answers 
seriously — "a  very  terrible  thing." 

*'  You  did  not  think  so  always,  Olive.  I  remember 
when  you  ridiculed  the  idea  of  matrimony  and  were 
going  in  for  woman's  rights  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing." 

"  Oh,  that  was  before  I  knew  ! "  Olive  says  softly. 
**  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  woman  Who  had  a  husband 
and  children  wishing  she  were  an  old  maid,  Allie  ? '* 

'*  Why  do  you  try  to  put  me  out  of  conceit  with 
my  lot,  Olive  ?  "  I  exclaim  fretfully.  "  I  said  long 
ago  that  I^  should  never  marry,  and  I  never  shall. 
But  I  mean  to  be  happy  in  my  own  way.  '  I  am 
happy — just  as  happy  as  half  the  married  women  in 
the  world." 

Olive  shakes  her  smooth  head  again,  very  posi- 
tively this  time. 

**I  wish  Digges  would  come  with  our  tea,"  I  say, 
yawning. 

My  godson  has  scrambled  off  my  lap,  my  book 
has  fallen  to  the  ground,  there  seems  to  have  come 
a  cold  breath  of  air  from  somewhere  or  other.  I 
shiver  in  my  blue  and  gold-colored  chintz  gown. 

"  It  is  early  yet, "  Olive  returns,  placidly  thread- 
ing her  needle. 

"Not  so  very  early" — looking  at  my  watch.  **I 
wonder  what  sport  Ronald  has  had  ?  I  haven't 
heard  any  shots  lately  ;  have  you  ?  " 

"  One  cannot  hear  much  when  you  and  Scott  are 
romping  with  each  other." 

"1  am  sure  he  ought  to  have  had  enough  of  it  by 
this  time,"  I  say,  not  alluding  to  the  romping. 
*'  He  started  off  the  moment  after  breakfast — seven 
good  hours  ago,  at  the  very  least." 

*'  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  have  him  back,  Allie  ?  " 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVB  1 65 

"  Not  the  slightest.  Only  it  is  astonishing  ho\^ 
the  thing  never  seems  to  pall  upon  them  ! " 

Olive  looks  at  me,  and  the  expression  of  her  face 
annoys  me. 

**  May  I  ask  what  is  amusing  ?  "  I  inquire  crossly. 

"Oh,  nothing  !  Only,  for  such  a  confirmed 
spinster — " 

**  Olive,  the  end  of  it  will  he  that  I  shall  quarrel 
with  you." 

"  I  hope  not,"  Olive  says  equahly.  "Here  is  Sir 
Ronald  coming  up  the  lawn." 

I  had  seen  him  before  she  spoke,  crossing  the 
grass  leisurely,  his  gun  under  his  arm,  and  his  dogs 
at  his  heels.  He  wears  knickerbockers  and  coarse 
ribbed  shooting-stockings,  and  he  looks  very  well — 
or  I  like  his  looks  very  well — as  he  comes  up  to  the 
window. 

**  Just  in  time  for  tea,  Ronald." 

*'I  don't  care  for  tea,  Rosalie,"  he  laughs,  leaning 
his  gun  against  the  wall  and  sitting  down  on  the 
steps  at  a  little  distance  from  me.  "  But  I  don't 
mind  assisting  at  the  ceremony  once  in  a  way." 

"  Had  you  any  sport,  Ronald  ?" 

*'  She  hopes  you  had  not,"  Olive  interpolates 
mischievously. 

*' Why  does  she  hope  that  ?"  Ronald  asks,  look- 
ing at  me. 

"  Don't  mind  Olive  ;  she  is  intensely  disagreeable 
to-day,"  I  laugh,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 

Digges  has  brought  up  a  gypsy-table  in  front  of 
me,  and  laid  the  tea-things  upon  it — my  dainty 
Sevres  cups  and  saucers,  my  gilded  spoons  my 
favorite  plum-cake,  piled  high  on  a  Sevres  dish, 
Olive's  favorite  home-made  biscuits,  a  basket  of  ripe 
black  plums. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  T\ith  yourself  all  day, 
Rosalie  ?  "  Ronald  asks,  with  apparent  irrelevancy. 


l66  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVfi. 

"  Gardening  a  little,  and  driving  with  Aunt 
Bosa." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  meet  me,  as  you 
promised  you  would  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

*'  I  was  looking  out  for  you  in  the  larch  wood." 

"Were  you?" 

"  Is  that  the  way  in  which  you  keep  your  promises, 
Eosalie.?" 

"  I  scarcely  ever  make  any  promises." 

"  So  much  the  better,  since  you  can  break  them 
80  easily." 

"  I  intended  to  go,  Ronald," 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  come  ?  " 

If  I  had  any  reason  at  all,  it  was  such  a  silly  one 
that  I  do  not  care  to  tell  it  to  him — indeed  nothing 
would  induce  me  to  tell  it  to  him,  of  all  people  in 
the  world.  I  have  gone  to  meet  him  on  his  way 
back  from  shooting  probably  a  hundred  times  ;  but  of 
late  I  have  shrunk  from  treating  him  with  the  sisterly 
familiarity  which  has  rendered  our  intercourse 
witli  each  other  so  pleasant — to  me,  at  least — for 
the  last  three  years.  When  or  how  this  new  feel- 
ing of  shyness  sprung  up  it  would  puzzle  me  to  tell. 
Konald  has  always  treated  me  like  a  younger  sister, 
with  a  gentle  protecting  kindness  which  has  nothing 
of  the  lover  about  it.  I  believe  his  last  attempt  at 
love-making  was  in  the  train  that  evening,  three 
years  ago,  when  he  brought  me  down  to  Woodhay. 
I  do  not  remember  a  single  word,  a  single  look  since 
then  which  could  be  construed  into  the  most  distant 
approach  to  anything  beyond  cousinly  or  brotherly 
affection.  And  I  have  ignored  the  past  just  as  en- 
tirely— perhaps  it  was  easier  for  me  to  do  it  than 
for  him — and  found  it  very  pleasant  to  have  Ronald 
to  go  to  in  all  my  difficulties,  to  ease  me  in  a  great 
measure  of  all  my  cares  of  state,  for,  though  we  do 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOvfe.  167 

Hot  live  in  the  same  county,  or  in  the  same  country 
even— Eonald's  place,  Balquharrie,  is  in  Scotland- 
he  comes  to  Woodhay  very  often,  and  we  write  to 
each  other  constantly — long  letters,  chiefly  on  busi- 
ness, but  letters  which  I  think  are  a  pleasure  to  us 
both.     I  know  they  are  a  pleasure  to  me. 

I  have  had  a  great  many  offers  of  marriage  during 
the  last  three  years,  more  than  I  care  to  remember. 
I  dismissed  my  suitors  one  after  the  other  with  no 
qualms  of  conscience,  for  even  the  vainest  of  them 
could  not  say  that  1  had  bestowed  any  favors  upon 
him,  or  given  him  any  reason  to  believe  that  I  would 
lend  a  favorable  ear  to  his  suit.  The  only  one  for 
whom  I  felt  any  sympathy  was  poor  Gussie  Deane. 
It  did  grieve  me — for  the  space  of  a  day  and  a  half 
— to  send  him  him  away  sorrowing  ;  but  then  neither 
had  I  ever  given  him  any  encouragement — my 
greatest  enemy  could  not  call  me  a  flirt.  Gus  had 
gone  out  to  the  Cape,  he  went  more  than  a  year 
ago  ;  Olive  hears  from  him  sometimes.  She  says 
she  thinks  he  is  getting  rather  fond  of  his  colonel's 
daughter,  a  nice  girl  whom  we  used  to  know  in 
London  ;  and  I  hope  it  is  the  case.  Ellinor  Deane 
is  married  to  Jack  EollestOn ;  I  have  had  them 
down  here  at  Woodhay  on  a  visit.  Poppy  and  her 
husband  are  in  Ceylon. 

Eonald  Scott  had  never  gone  back  to  India.  A 
distant  relative — a  third  or  fourth  cousin  of  his 
mother's,  I  believe,  and  a  very  old  man — had  died 
before  his  year's  holiday  was  over,  leaving  him 
Balquharrie,  a  fine  wild  place  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, which  it  seems  he  always  knew  would  one  day 
be  his.  I  have  never  been  there  ;  but  I  have  seen 
photographs  of  the  old  castle,  with  its  keep  and 
drawbridge,  and  the  great  wild  mountains  towering 
up  behind  it.  Sometimes  a  disagreeable  thought 
obtrudes  itself  into  piy  mind  that  Eonald  will  be 


I68  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

marrying  somebody  some  of  these  days,  and  that  1 
shall  lose  my  friend.  But  I  put  the  idea  away  from 
me  persistently ;  when  the  misfortune  happens  it 
will  be  time  enough  to  lament  over  it.  Meanwhile 
Ronald  belongs  to  me. 

Dear  old  Uncle  Tod  died  two  years  ago,  and  since 
his  death  Aunt  Rosa  has  lived  with  me.  At  his  d§ath 
the  Lockharts  moved  into  the  vicarage.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  have  Olive  so  near — scarcely  a  day  passes  that 
we  do  not  see  each  other — her  nursery  is  one  of  my 
favorite  haunts.  When  I  am  enjoying  myself  there, 
nobody  would  suppose  that  I  was  the  unapproachable 
Miss  Somers  Scott  of  Woodhay — so,  at  least,  Olive 
tells  me  when  she  interrupts  some  glorious  romp. 
And  I  am  happy  enough,  with  a  kind  of  negative 
happiness — I  manage  to  live,  and  take  some  pleasure 
out  of  life — without  the  heart  which  I  buried,  the 
day  I  came  of  age,  far  down  in  the  depths  of  my 
shadowy  combe.  I  have  never  attempted  to  raise  it 
up  again — I  do  not  suppose  I  could,  if  I  would.  I 
have  loved  and  done  with  love — I  gave  my  heart  to 
Gerard  Baxter  three  years  and  a  half  ago,  and,  if  I 
have  any  heart  left,  it  is  his  still.  Deep  down,  far 
away  from  the  disturbing  pleasures  and  cares  of 
every  day,  lies  the  memory  of  a  boy  with  dark  eyes 
— the  memory  of  a  tall  handsome  lad  whom  I  loved 
long  ago,  whom  I  know — if  I  dared  to  disturb  the 
liioss  and  long  grasses  about  that  buried  heart — I  love 
still  as  I  shall  never  love  any  one  else  in  the  world. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  a  hurry  for  tea,  Allie  ?" 

Olive's  voice  wakes  me  out  of  a  reverie. 

*'  I  wonder  where  Lily  is  ?  "  I  remarked,  as  I  ar- 
range my  cups  and  saucers. 

**  In  her  room,  I  think." 

"  Poor  child  !"  I  say  softly. 

''She  seems  very  nervous  and  excited,  Allie, 
4o?sii't  she  ?  " 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVfi.  169 

"  Is  it  any  wonder  ?  '* 

"I  suppose  not/' 

I  feel  nervous  and  excited  myself,  though  I  try 
not  to  think  of  to-morrow.  I  have  been  learning  a 
lesson  for  the  last  three  years,  and  I  am  afraid,  now 
that  I  shall  so  soon  be  called  upon  to  repeat  it,  my 
courage  may  fail  at  the  last  moment.  If  I  could  have 
saved  myself  so  severe  a  trial,  I  would  have  done  it ; 
but  I  could  not  very  well.  And,  after  all,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  have  it  over.  The  test  must  come  sooner  or 
later,  and  sometimes  I  almost  long  for  it  with  a 
fever  of  impatience,  for,  till  1  have  tried  my  own 
endurance,  how  can  I  know  that  it  will  stand  ? 

"  Scott,  will  you  run  in  and  pull  the  bell,  darling 
— or  stay,  I  will  go  for  her  myself.  Here  is  your 
tea,  Olive,  and  excuse  me  for  a  moment — I  want 
to  see  what  Lily  is  about." 

I  find  her  in  the  pretty  south  room  which  I  have 
had  fitted  up  for  her.  She  is  standing  before  the 
glass,  a  slender  figure  in  a  long  white  gown. 

*'Lily!" 

She  turns  round  at  the  sound  of  my  voice. 

"Admiring  yourself,  you  vain  child  ?" 

She  runs  to  me,  throws  her  arms  round  me,  and 
bursts  into  a  sudden  passion  of  tears. 

'*  My  dear  Lily,  what  are  you  crying  for,  on  this 
day,  of  all  days  in  the  year  1 "  Only  sobs  answer 
me.  I  touch  her  hair  tenderly,  the  soft  hair  that 
gleams  like  gold  as  it  ripples  away  from  her  white 
forehead.  "Yon  are  a  very  foolish  child,  Lily  ;  do 
you  know  that  ?  " 

*^  "  I  cannot  help  it,  Rosalie,  oh,  Eosalie,  what  if 
he  should  not  care  for  me — what  if  he  should  have 
cared  for  somebody  else — " 

"  He  has  not  cared  for  anybody  else  since  he  left 
you,  darling." 

**  But  how  do  you  know  ?" 


170  FOR  LIFE  AND  LoVfi. 

"  I  know.  And  I  have  come  to  take  you  down  to 
tea.     Dry  your  eyes  and  come  with  me." 

She  dries  her  eyes  obediently  ;  she  is  just  as  much 
of  a  child  still  as  she  was  three  years  ago.  In  other 
things  she  is  improved  out  of  all  resemblance  to  her 
former  self.  In  appearance  she  has,  if  anything, 
gained  in  attractiveness,  while  in  manner  she  is  as 
different  from  the  girl  I  brought  down  to  Woodhay 
three  years  ago  as  she  is  in  education  and  refine- 
ment of  speech.  I  have  taken  pains  to  make 
Gerard's  wife  as  beautiful  mentally  as  she  is  out- 
wardly, for  his  sake,  and  I  have  been  rewarded  by 
a  most  unexpected  measure  of  success.  Lily  is  as 
fair  as  the  flower  she  is  called  after — the  wretched 
surroundings  of  her  neglected  childhood  have  not 
smirched  the  whiteness  of  her  soul. 

A  little  wayward  she  is  still,  a  little  wilful  even  ; 
but  to  me  she  is  always  obedience  itself.  I  think 
she  always  would  be  to  any  one  she  loved. 

And  she  loves  me  with  a  perfect  passion  of  devo- 
tion. Whether  she  would  love  me  so  much  if  she 
knew  how  Gerard  once  loved  me  I  know  not — I 
have  taken  care  that  she  shall  never  hear  that  story 
from  me  or  from  any  one  else. 

"  What  shall  I  do  if  he  hates  me,  Eosalie  ?" 

I  am  holding  one  of  the  small  trembling  hands, 
smoothing  back  the  tendrils  of  red-gold  hair  out  of 
the  velvety  sapphire-blue  eyes.  The  beauty  of  the 
wistful  face  sends  a  strange  pang  to  my  heart. 

*'  Hate  you,  darling  !     As  if  he  could  !  " 

"  He  never  loved  me  as  I  loved  him,  Eosalie." 

**  Then  he  will  fall  in  love  with  you  to-morrow," 
I  assure  her,  smiling.  She  smiles  too  at  that,  a 
very  childlike  smile. 

"  If  I  could  only  think  it—" 

*'  My  darling,  you  may  be  sure  of  it.  He  will 
not  be  able  to  help  himself." 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  I71 

*"  Am  I  so  different  from  what  I  was  then  ?" 

The  deep  velvety  eyes  search  my  face  wistfully, 
the  color  burns  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  rounded 
cheeks. 

"Just  the  difference  that  he  would  wish  to  see, 
Lily.  You  were  a  child  then,  darling  ;  now  you  are 
a  woman,  ready  to  lend  a  woman's  earnest  helpful 
life." 

"  If  I  may  only  help  him,  Rosalie  ! " 

'*  You  shall  help  him.  Sep  liow  he  has  got  on — 
what  a  name  he  has  made  for  himself  !  And  if  he 
has  done  so  much  alone,  what  will  he  not  do  with 
you  to  cheer  and  encourage  him  ?  " 

She  sighs,  as  if  the  picture  oppressed  her  with  its 
weight  of  felicity. 

**  What  have  you  been  doing  up  here  all  the  after- 
noon, Lily  ?  " 

"  Looking  at  myself  in  the  glass,"  she  answers  at 
once. 

"  What  a  child  you  are  !  "  I  say,  laughing. 

"  It  was  childish,  wasn't  it  ?  But,  if  you  knew, 
Rosalie — " 

"I  do  know,  darling — I  know  all  about  it." 

It  is  I  who  sigh  this  time,  remembering  a  girl  in 
a  blue  dress,  with  a  buncb  of  violets  nestling  over 
her  heart — a  girl  who  had  looked  up  into  Gerard 
Baxter's  dark  eyes  and  "loved  him  with  that  love 
which  was  her  doom." 

"  Come  down  and  have  some  tea,"  I  say,  drawing 
her  out  of  the  room  with  me. 

I  love  the  child,  for  Gerard's  sake  ;  but  it  has 
cost  me  many  a  pang  to  watch  her  growing  loveli- 
ness and  think  whose  arms  will  clasp  her,  whose 
lips  will  kiss  her  by  and  by  when  I  am  forgotten  ! 
The  pain  is  very  vague  now,  a  dimness  has  come 
over  it  of  late.  But  I  know  that  it  is  only  in  abey- 
ance— that  the  very  sound  of  Gerard  Baxter's  voice 


172  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

will  bring  it  all  to  life  again,  to  haunt  me  with  its 
old  tormenting  anguish  of  unrest. 

"  I  shall  know  to-morrow/'  the  girl  says  dreamily, 
as  we  cross  the  hall  together.  "  1  shall  know  to- 
morrow." 

*'  And  I,"  I  echo,  but  not  aloud — "  I  too  shall 
know  to-morrow." 

AVe  find  Olive  and  Ronald  Scott  apparently  ex- 
changing confidences  in  the  sunshine,  Konald  with 
his  elbow  on  the  window-sill,  looking  up,  and  Olive 
looking  down.  They  cease  talking  when  we  make 
our  appearance,  which  rather  rouses  my  suspicion ; 
but  Olive  looks  so  demurely  unconscious  that  I  may 
be  mistaken  in  supposing  she  was  telling  tales  of 
me.  And  Eonald  looks  so  curiously  at  Lily  as  we 
come  forward  to  the  window  that  I  half  fancy  they 
must  have  been  talking  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Oh,  Rosalie,  why  have  you  put  on  that  hideous 

dress  ?" 

*'  Hideous  ! "  I  repeat,  looking  down  at  it.  **  Do 
you  think  it  hideous,  Lily  ?" 

*'  Why,  everybody  does  !  It  is  about  the  only  un- 
becoming dress  you  have,  Rosalie — Mrs.  Lockharfc 
is  always  wishing  somebody  would  steal  it,  or  burn 
it,  or  something. " 

*'  Oh,  Olive  never  admired  my  taste  in  dress  !  " 
*'But  it  is  not  becoming  to  you,  indeed,  Rosalie.** 
"My  dear,   I  have  ceased  to  study  my  appear- 
ance !  " — which  is  not  true,  since  I  have  studied  it 
particularly  this  evening. 

"  And  I  wanted  you  to  look  well,"  Xi^J  sayg, 
sighing,  as  she  considers  me. 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  1^3 

"  If  you  look  well,  that  is  all  that  is  of  any  conse- 
quence." 

*'  Do  I  ?  "  the  girl  asks  wistfully. 

She  looks  exquisite  in  her  dress  of  snowy  llama 
softly  ruffled  with  Spanish  lace. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  spent  the  last  hour  and  a  half 
over  your  toilet — do  you  think  it  likely  I  would 
have  ceased  my  efforts  unless  I  had  been  satisfied 
with  the  result  ?  " 

She  smiles  a  little  at  this — her  infantine  innocent 
emile. 

"You  look  like  a  white  rose,"  I  say,  tenderly 
stroking  the  pretty  white  arm.  "You  must  have 
more  color  in  your  cheeks  than  that,  Lily,  or  else 
your  husband  will  think  I  have  been  starving  you  !" 

There  is  color  enough  in  her  cheeks  for  a  minute 
after  that  ;  but  it  fades  away  again  ;  the  deep  pansy- 
blue  eyes  look  darker  than  ever,  the  childish  lips 
tremble,  even  the  little  gloved  hand  shakes  as  1 
clasp  it  closely  in  my  own.  I  shall  be  glad  when 
this  interview  is  over.  My  own  heart  is  beating — 
my  own  color  comes  and  goes  at  every  sound  with- 
out— I  am  almost  sorry  I  told  Digges  to  light  up 
the  drawing-room  ;  but  1  wanted  Gerard  to  see  his 
wife  in  a  full  blaze  of  light,  to  be  dazzled  by  her 
beauty,  as  I  know  his  artistic  imagination  will  be 
dazzled  by  it,  surrounded  by  every  adventitious  aid 
that  I  can  think  of  or  devise. 

It  is  a  quarter  to  eight  o'clock — at  eight  he  may 
he  here ;  I  have  sent  a  carriage  to  meet  him  at  the 
railway-station  ;  he  is  to  stay  at  Woodhay  to-night. 
Ronald  has  been  out  all  day  shooting  ;  it  is  scarcely 
five  minutes  since  he  ran  up-stairs  to  dress.  He  too 
seems  rather  excited — I  cannot  think  what  has  come 
over  him.  He  does  not  seem  jealous  of  my  expected 
visitor — he  seems  rather  in  a  hurry  to  have  him 
come.     His  manner  puzzles  me  a  little,  because  he 


174  FO^  LIFE  AND  LQVE. 

is  generally  so  grave  and  self-contained,  so  impervi- 
ous apparently  to  the  mere  outward  influences  which 
have  such  power  to  raise  or  to  depress  me. 

Old  Digges  has  certainly  done  his  best  to  illumi- 
nate the  drawing-room.  The  wood  fire  crackles 
and  sparkles  on  the  hearth,  reflected  in  every  painted 
tile  ;  the  chandelier  scintillates  with  row  after  row 
of  softly  luminous  wax-candles,  reflected  in  every 
mirror  about  the  room.  It  is  a  pretty  room,  though 
I  say  it,  to  whom  it  belongs,  quaint  and  rich  and 
old-fashioned,  and  it  never  looks  so  well  as  when  it 
is  lighted  up  at  night.  And  its  warm  red  tones 
throw  out  that  white  figure  so  purely,  standing  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  wax  lights,  as  a  niche  of  ruddy 
velvet  throws  out  some  fair  white  statue,  rendering 
its  whiteness  more  purely  white  by  contrast.  I  have 
drawn  Lily  into  the  best  light  the  room  affords,  un- 
consciously to  herself,  and  there  I  keep  her  stand- 
ing while  I  listen  for  the  wheels  which  seem  to  my 
impatience  to  tarry  so  long, 

"  You  must  stay  here  if  I  go  out  to  meet  him, 
Lily ;  remember  that.'' 

"Here — alone?"  she  asks,  with  frightened  eyes 
searching  my  face. 

"  My  darling,  it  will  only  be  for  a  moment.  But 
you  must  promise  me  not  to  stir." 

"  Not  even  to  run  to  the  door,  Rosalie  ?  " 

"  Not  to  move  from  where  I  leave  you,  dear — it 
is  I  who  should  welcome  him  to  Woodhay,  yon 
know — " 

"  Oh,  yes  !     But  might  I  not  come  with  you  ?" 

"  No.  I  wish  to  see  him  first — for  a  moment—* 
alone." 

''You  won't  keep  me  too  long  waiting?"  sha 
pleads,  with  a  tremulous  smile. 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,  darling — not  a  minute,  prob* 
ftbly,  if  so  much." 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  I75 

Honald  seems  to  be  a  long  time  over  his  toilet  this 
evening,  or  can  it  be  that  he  does  not  wish  to  be 
present  at  the  meeting  of  husband  and  wife  ?  Aunt 
Kosa  never  makes  her  appearance  till  the  gong 
sounds — I  do  not  think  there  is  much  danger  of  her 
veering  out  of  her  groove  to-night. 

Ten  minutes  to  eight — five — three.  I  fancy  I 
hear  wheels  in  the  distance  ;  but  the  clock  ticks  so 
loudly  that  I  cannot  be  certain.  . 

"  liere  he  is  ! "  Lily  says,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
heart. 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

*'  Oh,  quite  sure  \" 

"  Then,  do  not  stir — remember   what  you   have 

f)romised  me  I"  I  say,  and  cross  the  room  quietly, 
ooking  back  at  her  over  my  shoulder. 

The  picture  is  perfect  ;  all  the  lights  seem  con- 
centrated about  the  exquisite  figure  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor — she  looks  more  like  a  vision 
than  a  human  being,  so  pale  is  slie,  with  all  that 
glory  of  light  falling  full  on  her  golden  head. 

With  a  long  breath,  which  is  almost  a  sigh,  I  open 
the  door  and  walk  into  the  hall  just  as  Gerard 
Baxter  steps  into  it  out  of  the  starry  darkness  of  the 
September  night. 

He  catches  sight  of  me  in  a  moment,  and  comes 
forward  quickly,  his  hat  in  one  hand,  the  other 
stretched  out  to  meet  mine. 

"  Welcome  to  Woodhay,"  I  say,  smiling.  And 
the  dreaded  meeting  is  over. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answers,  in  the  voice  I  remem- 
ber so  well,  and  stands  there  looking  down  at  me, 
while  I  look  up  at  him  with  eyes  which  seem  to  have 
suddenly  grown  dim. 

This  is  not  my  boy,  this  stalwart  man,  black- 
haired  and  bearded  like  a  pard  !  This  is  not  the  lad 
I  remember,  the  lad  whom  my  imagination  had 


176  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  ' 

clothed  with  every  fair  attribute  under  the  sun  ! 
Surely  I  must  have  forgotten  him,  or  else  he  must 
have  changed  mysteriously,  if  tliis  pallid  handsome 
man  is  the  boy  I  loved  long  ago — the  Gerard  Baxter 
whom  my  god-like  fancy  had  endowed  with  perpet- 
ual youth  !  This  man  looks  old  for  his  age,  is  in- 
clined to  be  stout,  is  splendidly  handsome  certainly, 
with  a  kind  of  foreign  perfection  of  feature  and 
coloring  ;  but  he  is  not  the  lad  with  whom  I  fell  in 
love  three  years  and  a  half  ago — the  slender,  poverty- 
stricken  artist  who  ''did  win  my  heart  from  me" 
in  Mrs.  Wauchope's  shabby  house  in  Carleton  Street, 
and  broke  it,  here  at  Woodhay,  the  day  I  came  of 
age  ! 

"  Will  you  go  in  there  ?"  I  say,  loosing  my  hand 
from  his  close  grasp,  and  nodding  my  head  toward 
■'",he  drawing-room  door.  "  1  promised  not  to  detain 
you  for  more  than  a  minute." 

*'  Is  she  there  ?"  he  asks,  in  a  sort  of  breathless 
fashion. 

''Yes." 

He  hesitates  for  a  moment,  looking  down  at  me. 
I  wonder  what  he  thinks  of  me  in  the  ugly  mouse- 
colored  velveteen  which  my  friends  wish  somebody 
would  steal  or  destroy. 

"I  suppose  you  have  forgotten  me  ?"  he  says,  a 
little  wistfully. 

*'  Quite,"  I  answer,  with  a  cheerful  smile—"  as 
you  have  forgotten  me." 

He  shakes  his  head  at  that  ;  but  I  put  my  hand 
lightly  on  his  arm  and  impel  him  toward  the  open 
door.  I  can  see  that  he  is  eager  to  go  in,  and  yet 
he  hesitates — can  it  be  out  of  compassion  for  me  ? 

"  Go  in,"  I  say  smilingly,  and  usher  him  into  the 
softly-illuminated  room,  waiting  just  long  enough— 
nnperceived  by  either — to  see  the  look  of  bewilder- 
ment on  his  face  change  suddenly  into  passionate 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  177 

admiration,  and  to  hear  her  low  cry  of  delight  as 
she  rushes  forward  into  his  outstretched  arms. 

#  :):  :|c  «  4c  ♦ 

"Dinner  is  over — such  a  merry  dinner  as  had  nofc 
taken  place  at  Woodhay  for  many  a  long  day.  Not 
even  the  grim  portraits  of  my  ancestors  or  my  old 
butler's  solemn  visage  could  damp  our  mirth — I  do 
not  believe  any  one  gave  a  single  thought  to  either. 
Even  Aunt  Eosa  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks  at  Gerard's  adventures  abroad,  which  he  re- 
lated with  a  quiet  humor  that  somehow  reminded  me 
of  Mark  Twain  and  the  irresistible  "Mr.  Harris." 
He  has  travelled  a  good  deal,  and  some  of  his  experi- 
ences in  foreign  cities  and  galleries  were  most  amus- 
ing, or  he  amused  us  by  relating  them  in  his  droll 
unsmiling  way.  As  for  Eonald  Scott  I  never  saw 
him  looking  so  happy  before  as  he  has  looked  ever 
since  Gerard  Baxter  came  into  the  house. 

After  dinner,  we  three  ladies  betake  ourselves  to 
the  drawing-room.  Aunt  Rosa  disposes  herself  for 
a  nap  on  the  sofa,  and  Lily  kneels  on  the  rug  beside 
my  favorite  low-chair,  and  rests  her  elbow  on  my 
knee  and  her  cheek  in  her  hand,  looking  into  the 
fire  with  serenely  happy  eyes.  # 

*' Well,  Lily,''  I  ask  at  last,  "  is  your  silly  little 
heart  at  rest  ?  " 

*'  I  think  so,'*  she  answers,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
*'  Oh,  Rosalie,  I  am  so  happy  ! " 

*'  Long  may  your  happiness  continue,  darling,"  I 
say,  and  bend  down  to  kiss  the  downy  forehead. 

"  Rosalie,"  she  says  presently,  taking  my  hand 
and  leaning  her  cheek  upon  it,  '*!  wish  you  were  as 
happy  as  I  am  to-night." 

*'  Dear,  I  am  very  happy,"  I  answer,  a  little 
startled  by  the  unexpected  aspiration. 

"  Are  you  ?  " — looking  up  at  me  with  soft  question  - 
ing  eyes. 

13 


X78  FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

"  Indeed  I  am." 

She  sighs  a  sigh  of  the  most  complete  content. 

*'  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Rosalie  ;  you  have  been 
so  good  to  me — and  to  him." 

*'  And  I  am  rewarded  now  by  seeing  your  happi- 
ness, Lily — and  his." 

*'  I  think  he  is  happy,"  she  says  dreamily,  look- 
ing into  the  fire. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is.  I  do  not  know  anybody  who 
looks  happier  than  he  looked  to-night!" 

"  Sir  Ronald  looked  very  happy,"  Lily  observea 
demurely  ;  but  this  time  she  does  not  look  up  at  me. 

"Yes;  I  thought  he  looked  in  rather  better 
humor  than  usual." 

I  have  just  been  thinking  how  well  he  looked  in 
his  plain  evening-dress,  with  his  grave  face  and 
drooping  brown  mustache  and  that  laughing  look 
in  his  brown  eyes.  It  is  certainly  very  becoming 
to  people  to  look  happy.  I  wonder  if  I  too  look 
happier  than  usual  to-night  ? 

"  I  wish  you  hadn^t  worn  this  ugly  dress,"  Lily 
Bays,  laughing  as  she  smooths  my  mouse-colored 
velveteen  with  her  delicate  hand. 

"  Do  I  look  such  a  show,  Lily  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  don't  look  as  you  would  have  looked 
in  your  white  dress,  or  in  th6  blue  flowered  one,  or 
in  your  pink  silk." 

"  Never  mind.  I  can  wear  my  pink  silk  to-mor- 
row night." 

"  But  Gerard  won't  be  here  to-morrow  night." 

Somebody  else  will,  though — I  think  so,  with  a 
strange  glad  thi-ill  at  my  heart.  While  I  smile  to 
myself,  wondering  why  I  never  felt  like  this  before, 
Lily  turns  her  head,  listening  to  some  sound  in  the 
hall. 

**  You  think  you  will  never  see  him  again,'*  ] 
laugh,  pulling  her  little  pink  ear. 


FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE.  179 

"He  is  coming,"  she  says,  rising  from  her  place 
on  the  hearthrug  to  stand  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  door. 

And  he  does  come  a  moment  later  ;  but,  when  I 
look  for  Eonald  to  follow  him  into  the  room,  I  am 
disappointed — Ronald  has  gone  out  to  solace  him- 
self with  a  cigar. 

*****  * 

The  terrace  is  steeped  in  moonlight  as  bright  as 
day,  all  the  flowers  in  my  garden  stand  up  like  the 
ghosts  of  flowers — white  in  the  white  light  of  the 
moon.  I  have  come  out  on  to  the  terrace  ostensibly 
to  breathe  the  cool  delicious  night-air,  but  in  reality 
to  give  the  lovers  in  the  drawing-room  a  few  mo- 
ments together  before  Digges  comes  in  with  tea. 
But  I  am  glad  I  came  out,  the  night  is  so  serene,  so 
heavenly  in  its  quiet,  so  soft,  so  unclouded  ;  the  air 
is  so  delicious  with  the  perfume  of  my  beds  of  night- 
scented  stock  and  mignonette.  I  lean  over  the 
terrace  balcony  watching  the  moon  slip  from  branch 
to  branch  of  dark  sleeping  trees,  a  white  knitted 
"  cloud  "  wrapped  round  my  head  and  shoulders — a 
shadowy  figure  "  gray  against  the  gray."  So  Ronald 
finds  me  when  he  saunters  round  from  the  dining- 
room  a  moment  later,  finishing  his  cigar. 

"  Do  I  sleep — do  I  dream, 
Or  are  visious  about  ?  " 

he  laughs,  throwing  away  the  cigar  to  lean  over  the 
balcony  beside  me.  "  What  lucky  chance  induced 
you  to  take  an  airing  here  to-night,  cousin  ?  " 

"  No  chance  at  all,  but  perfect  good-nature,"  I 
answer,  smiling.  "I  did  to  others  what  I  would 
have  them  do  unto  me  in  the  same  circumstances — 
that  was  all." 

''  I  bless  the  kindly  thought,"  Ronald  says,  look- 
ing at  my  smiling  face  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


l8o  FOR  LIFE  AND   LOVE. 

**  We  must  leave  them  a  long  time  together,  Allie, 
mustn't  we  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  he  has  ever  called  me  Allie  before, 
if  he  has,  I  do  not  remember  it.  But  I  like  to  hear 
him  say  it  in  that  grave  tender  voice  of  his. 

"  I  must  give  them  some  tea  presently.*' 

"  Tea  !  Do  you  think  they  will  want  tea — or  any- 
thing else — while  they  have  each  other  ?  " 

"  But  Aunt  Rosa  will  wake  up  like  clock-work 
and  call  out  for  hers — you  know  she  always  does." 

"I  hope  her  jollity  at  dinner  will  have  a  soporifie 
effect,"  Ronald  laughs,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
*'  Allie,  what  a  night  it  is.  I  was  just  wishing  I 
could  persuade  you  to  come  out  when  I  turned  the 
corner  of  the  house  and  found  you  here." 

"  Were  you  indeed  ?  "  I  say,  watching  the  moon 
glide  across  from  one  tufted  tree-top  to  another. 
( *'  It  is  seldom  one's  wishes  are  so  quickly  granted— 
so  far,  at  least,  as  my  experience  goes." 

"  One  would  think  you  had  need  to  wish  for  very 
little,  Allie." 

"  How  so  ?  "  I  ask,  turning  my  head  to  look  at 
him. 

"Why,  most  people  would  say  you  had  all  your 
heart  could  desire." 

*'  Has  anybody  that,  I  wonder  ?  " 

*'I  have  gone  back  to  my  contemplation  of  the 
moon,  and  I  speak  the  words  dreamily,  not  so  much 
ft  question  as  an  assertion,  yet  Ronald  answers  them 
as  if  they  had  been  a  question. 

''  Do  you  mean,  is  there  anybody  perfectly  happy 
in  the  world  ?  " 

**  If  having  all  the  ueart  could  desire  would  make 
one  happy — yes." 

"  I  only  desire  one  thing  at  this  moment,"  Ronald 
Bays,  in  a  lower  tone. 

*'  To  make  you  happy  ?  " 


FOR  LIFE  AND  LOVE.  l8l 

"  To  make  me  so  intolerably  happy  that  I  would 
count  one  hour  of  such  happiness  worth  the  pain 
and  toil  of  a  lifetime  if  by  that  only  could  I  attain 
it." 

He  is  not  looking  at  me  now,  but  at  my  dusky 
belt  of  woodland  rising  densely  black  against  the 
faint  fair  moonlit  sky.  But  I  glance  at  his  grave  face 
— almost  stern  it  looks  as  he  stands  there  erect  in  the 
moonlight — and  wonder  why  my  heart  beats  so 
loudly,  and  what  new  glory  has  come  to  the  soft 
splendor  of  the  September  night. 

'' AUie,"  he  says,  turning  to  me  suddenly,  "you 
told  me  once  that  you  cared  so  much  for — somebody 
else — that,  though  I  might  be  a  thousand  times 
better — a  thousand  times  more  worthy — these  are 
your  own  words — I  could  never  be  to  you  what  that 
man  was." 

''Yes,"  I  answer  vaguely,  remembering  the  day 
and  the  hour  when  I  had  said  it,  standing  in  the 
drawing-room  window  at  Woodhay — the  very  window 
which  is  glimmering  behind  us  now  in  the  light  of 
the  moon. 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  his  name  then,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  ask  it  now,"  Eonald  goes  on,  in  the  same 
quick  passionate  way.  "  But  I  am  going  to  ask 
you  if  you  will  reconsider  your  answer  to  me  that 
day,  AUie — if  you  can  find  it  in  your  heart  to  love 
me  a  little  now — I,  who  have  loved  you  so  long  !  " 

My  heart  !  What  heart  ?  My  heart  lies  buried 
under  those  night-black  trees  in  the  hollow  yonder  ! 
How  can  I  give  him — or  any  one — that  dead  and 
loathsome  thing  ? 

''  But  I  have  no  heart  to  give  you,  Eonald." 

**  Have  you  not  ? "  he  says,  smiling  a  little. 
"Allie,  I  am  wiser  than  you,  and  I  think  you  have.'* 

In  a  moment — in  a  second  of  time,  it  seems  to  me 
—my  spirit  flies  away  to  that  shadowy  combe  dowij 


.t82  for  life  4ND   LOVE. 

by  the  rushing  river,  where  the  moonlight  glimpses 
80  mysteriously  through  the  moving  branches,  and 
searches  till  it  finds  that  lonely  grave — finds  it,  and 
tears  away  the  mosses,  the  long  trailing  grasses,  the 
dead  leaves  of  three  sorrowful  winters,  and  discovers 
• — nothing.  It  is  not  there,  the  heart  that  I  buried 
there  three  years  ago — that  shallow  grave  had  no 
power  to  hold  it — it  is  free  ! 

"  Allie,  have  you  no  heart  to  give  me — now  ?'* 
He  is  watching  my  face,  he  has  drawn  nearer  to 
me — he  holds  out  his  arms.  And,  with  a  rapture 
that  is  too  deep  for  utterance,  I  cast  away  that 
haunting  memory  and  suffer  myself  to  be  folded  in 
the  strong  arms  of  the  man  whom  I  believe  I  have 
really  loved  since  the  very  day  that  he  ceased  to 
make  love  to  me  ! 


TfiB    BUD. 


s^^^ 


For     i}^^Ju^^^^^^n    u'^u* 


MRS.  WINSLOW'S 
SOOTHING  SYRVP 


A  Word  -to  Mothers 

^'^riTTHILE  the  advertisements  of  Mrs* 

YY  Winslow's  Soothing  Syrup  state 
precisely  what  the  experienced 
nurse  knew  the  syrup  had  done  and  would 
continue  to  do  for  infants,  there  is  as  much 
that  might  be  said  of  what  it  does  for 
mothers. 

In  allaying  the  pain  of  infants  while 
teething,  it  insures  to  mothers  peaceful 
days  and  restful  nights. 

In  relieving  infants  of  wind  colic  it  re- 
lieves mothers  of  one  of  their  main  causes 
for  anxiety,  and  as  a  remedy  for  diarrhoea 
it  would  seem  to  be  the  antidote  for  all 
maternal  fears. 

Hence  mothers  can  enjoy  the  home  cir- 
cle and  the  outside  world  as  well  while 
their  infants  thrive  through  the  medium 
of  Mrs,  Winslow's  Soothing  Syrup. 


Reasons  why 


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The  Famous  Al^er  Books 

By  Horatio  Al^er,  Jr.  The  Boy's  Writer 


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Adrift  in  New  York. 

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Do  and  Dare. 

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A  BOOK  OF  THE  HOUR 


The  Simple  Life 

By  CHARLES  WAGNER 


Translated  from  the  French  by  H.  L.  WILLIAMS 


L 


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Helen's 
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Interesting:  I 
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Alice  in  Wonderland  and  Through 

the  Looking-Glass. 
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Headed  Boy. 
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Swiss  Family  Robinson. 
Tales  fromScotiforycung  People. 
Tom  Brown's  School  Days. 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 


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Dictionaries  of 
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"  "  "  X  Russia,    $1.75. 

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